


The World Changes That Fast

by drop_an_idea_on_a_page



Category: Justified
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-05-14 23:54:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 79,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5763784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drop_an_idea_on_a_page/pseuds/drop_an_idea_on_a_page
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have a question, just one: Where is he? But Tim remains stubbornly silent. Must be pride, he thinks, as the first consequence of his silence slams hard into the side of his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A fic dragged out of the hard drive to chase away my winter blues.

**PART ONE  
**

He remembers a chair.

He remembers a room, poorly lit, damp, cold.

He remembers a fist, a knife, the snap of bones breaking, hurting the ears as much as the fingers, but not hurting, not any of it, as much as the breaking of the myth of what he thought he was, and the emptiness afterward.

For the first time in a long time, in his life that he can remember, he needs someone to talk to.

There's a face above him when he opens his eyes, and he thinks, _no, not her._ Rachel.

"Tim?"

The name is his, but it doesn't seem to fit right, hangs loose like a stranger's clothes, too big for what he is now, big like he thought he was before this. Everything is different when the world gets brutal in such a personal manner. How can it not change you? The Tim she's addressing doesn't exist anymore.

"Tim?"

He blinks, holds her gaze.

"Hey," she says.

 _Hey,_ he thinks, _yeah, sure, why not?_ _Hey._ Then he closes his eyes. He can smell her, or he can't, not really. What he can smell is old and packed blood. It must be a memory of what she smells like. She always wears a particular perfume to work, always, so it's a part of the space she occupies in his mind. There's a soft scent and a soft voice and a flinty look to go with the flinty words, and that's Rachel in his world, a mixed-up sensory experience. It throws him sometimes when she bites, but there's no bite today when he opens his eyes again to try to see the scent that he knows is there with her, and she's watching him. It's all soft. She reaches over and puts a hand on his arm, soft.

"Look at you," she says. "I didn't know a pasty white boy could be so colorful. You're like the flag – red, white and blue. And I think I see some yellow and green…" There's no flint. "We had to use fingerprints to get an ID on you." She's making a joke, but the soft chuckle with it has no substance, is thinner than he feels, and the smile with it isn't soft – it's flint, hard and not sharing with the rest of her face.

He closes his eyes once more – it's easier – drifts away from thinking.

* * *

 

When he's aware again, there are different voices – two men…no, three. They're familiar voices: Art, Raylan, and Nelson, then not Nelson. He doesn't open his eyes for them. It's one thing to look at Rachel feeling like he is, quite another to look at Art or Raylan. Maybe it's a guy thing, but he's not up to it today. Looking at Art or Raylan, looking at them when he's like this, makes him feel vulnerable, a different kind of vulnerable from a gun to the head, and he's not willing yet. All he's got left of himself is his vulnerability, and the thought of seeing it reinforced, reflected back, makes it worse.

"Rachel said he was awake?"

"She was in early this morning, said he opened his eyes and looked at her."

"That's different from being awake, Art."

"She said he recognized her."

"Wishful wishing."

"You really think Rachel's the wishful wishing type?"

One of them walks closer to the bed. He knows it's Raylan when he speaks, close by.

"Did he say anything to her?"

"No."

"Well." The tone says he's made his point.

"Well, he's got a tube down his throat, Raylan. He couldn't say anything anyway, and for once in my life I'd be happy to listen to his snark, the little shit. Jesus, this is hard. I want to know what happened. I want an ID on the fuckers who did this."

"If you swearing like that doesn't bring him around, I don't know what will."

Art steps right over Raylan's attempts to get a rise from him. He steps right over it and continues, angry, on his warpath. Nothing is going to stop him getting to the bottom of this. Even he sounds vulnerable, vulnerable and angry. "We don't even have a why yet."

"We got nothing. And taking into account all that nothing, you might want to consider the idea that maybe he just tripped and fell."

"And that would explain the burn marks and the tape."

Raylan is working to calm Art down, digging for the sarcasm and relenting when he hears it finally.

"We'll get 'em, Art."

"You know how cliché that sounds? 'We'll get 'em, Art.' Shit. I'm not so sure. I wish we had something to move on, anything."

"You consider maybe it was personal?"

"Doesn't matter, does it? I'd still want to get the fuckers."

"Well, we're not going to do it standing around here."

There's a shuffling of feet, and the door opens – he can feel the change of air.

"You coming?"

"Never in all my time as a marshal have I even heard of anything like this…ever. What is this?"

"This is assault."

"A bit too common a word for it."

"Art, you coming?"

"No, I'm going to stay a bit, see if he comes around."

"Let me know if he does. You got some paper and a pencil since he can't talk?"

"I don't think he could hold a pencil."

"Good point. So don't bother calling."

"Raylan, what are you going to do exactly, since you got nothing to go on?"

"I dunno, walk the neighborhood again, talk to people, see if I can rattle something loose."

"Go on then. I'll be back at the office after lunch."

"Yeah."

And the door closes and a body settles into a chair.

* * *

 

He wakes up hurting. Each particular spasm of pain, each dull ache is like a flashcard description of a different hour of his captivity. That ache, the one in his left hand, that was when he stopped even trying to communicate with his captors. They weren't interested in any deal, in any bargaining, and he was beyond rational thought. That one, the burn of the bed sheet over raw skin, that was their opening maneuver, at a point when he still had confidence, a veneer of bravado polished through thirty years of never letting anything get the better of him. And that one, the one that hurts the most remembering, the sharp stab of abused ribs, that was them getting down to business, that was the bravado saying goodbye and the fury of impotence taking over and lashing out, trying to hurt back and failing completely and utterly. They laughed at him. They laughed.

He laughed at himself. _What the fuck are you trying to accomplish with that phrase – 'fuck you'? You stupid fucking asshole. So fucking what?_

So fucking what? _Fuck you!_ So what? All the clever words in the world… What asshole said that the pen is mightier than the sword? That may be true if you live long enough to have someone read whatever you wrote, but… Seriously. _Fuck you, pen. Fuck…you._

He could have used a sword. Not that he could have actually used it, taped to the chair.

_Fuck you, chair._

He thinks he remembers saying that once, aloud in the room when they left him alone. _Fuck you, chair._

So what?

Impotence.

_Fuck you, impotence._

There's a phrase that reinforces itself.

His throat hurts. There's no flashcard for that, just a thirst. He opens his eyes and looks for Art, willing to face him for a sip of water, but the room is empty. He closes his eyes again, shuts out the empty room.

 _Fuck you, bed,_ he thinks, trying to raise a laugh in his chest, but it's stuck in a raw throat, or truthfully it just doesn't manifest.

* * *

 

The quiet is sudden, no thoughts, no noise except for his breathing, the machine breathing for him. The silence unnerves him so he gets his mind noisy thinking about the machine. It's keeping his lungs from collapsing, he figures. He knows that from medical training in the Army – what to do in case of traumatic chest injury. What you do is deal with whatever caused it first. Good luck performing a battlefield emergency medical procedure with incoming mortar rounds. Deal with the fucking mortars or the shitheads with the rifles, or whatever. He wishes he'd had the chance to deal with what caused this particular traumatic chest injury. He'd like to get his hands on that metal-pipe-wielding fucker. Maybe not today, though – can't do much about it today. Maybe in a few months.

He tries to remember the face, concentrates hard to draw the eyes in his mind, the nose, chin, hair, tattoos. He concentrates so hard, but the medium he's using isn't stable. Opioids make for lousy evidence drawings, smearing and distorting. He's drawn his cousin instead, or it looks like her, or is that the girl who brings him his beer at The Chase? Whenever he goes there he stands a minute inside the door and watches, makes sure he ends up at a table where she's serving. He'd like to buy her a beer. He'd like her to bring him a beer right now.

There's a mechanical beep dripping on his drawing and now the picture he's been trying to sketch is just a water stain, and here his throat is stinging for water, for beer, for apple juice, for anything wet, getting some pain killer instead and then his whole world's a water stain and fading out of reach of a parched throat.

* * *

 

He's still thirsty when he opens his eyes later and focuses on a face. It's Nelson's face; he's in the chair. He wants desperately to get across to Nelson that he's thirsty.

_Get me some fucking water._

Nelson sits up and leans forward, bites his lip. He holds Tim's gaze for a minute then looks down at his hands.

"You're probably dying for something to drink," he says. "But you'll just have to tough it out, Tim."

 _Get me some fucking water._ He squeezes his eyes shut. It's like putting a lid on an overfilled cup of coffee and some liquid escapes and drips out. For some reason, he's glad it's Nelson sitting there and not Art, not Rachel.

"My younger brother was in a bad motorcycle accident once, years ago, and he…" Nelson waves his fingers at his neck, "…he had to be intubated, like you, right… Chest injury. Uh…" Nelson looks up again, then down again, then away. "He said it was the worst part. He said he was so thirsty. His throat hurt. I don't think you'll have it in for long, though. Sam had to have surgery, right, and the doctors don't think you'll need to. They think your lungs will heal by themselves. Probably. Anyway, uh… Hang in there."

Tim swings an arm up, an uncoordinated and floppy arm, his hand in a brace, and drops it across his face. He sees Nelson cringe as he does it, but he doesn't try to stop him.

"Careful," is all Nelson says, then, "Don't… Just… It sucks, I know, but it's not forever, just…"

He hears Nelson leave. A nurse comes in shortly afterward and moves his arm back to his side and pokes around. She smiles for him, touches places that hurt, sees him wince and ups the pain medication, makes a note on his chart, smiles again, leaves.

The room feels empty without his bravado for company. He wishes Nelson would come back, get his mind off things with his stupid rambling, stupid at the office maybe but not here, not so much. It fits in here somehow. He wonders what kind of motorcycle Nelson's brother rode, whether he's still riding. Probably not if he had to suffer through this.

Nelson comes back in after a bit, sits and tells Tim what's been going on at the office. He drifts in and out listening, appreciating for once Nelson's stupid rambling.

* * *

 

He opens his eyes and he's caught. Art sees him and walks over from the door where he's texting, sets his phone on the hospital table that glides around on wheels but that doesn't have any water on it. He wants to cry because there's no glass on that table with a bendy straw and water in it. That's what the fucking table is for. It's for water. Where's the fucking water?

"Tim?"

He squeezes his eyes shut tightly, shuts out Art, wishes him away.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Tuesday morning.  This is when it starts.

"Who wants Sandoval?"

The room goes quiet, everyone avoiding eye contact with Art. It's a dull chore taking on a WITSEC case from out of district.

Tim ducks his head like a school boy, tries to look busy with something, shifts his eyes sideways and they meet Raylan's. They share a conspiratorial grin that says 'not me'. Glorified and overqualified and armed babysitting is what it is, he thinks. By the time the poor asshole gets to you, no one knows where that asshole is except the handful of deputies in the Marshals Service involved in the case, and the Marshals Service has a damn good record of keeping the faith of witness security. You go through the motions of protecting someone who's already so well hidden even the Tooth Fairy couldn't find them. It's boring. It's paperwork and chauffeuring. And despite all the stories written about beautiful and innocent witnesses, strong and weak in all the right proportions, undeniable chemistry, helpless and electric looks for the man with the holster watching over them, hot and forbidden sex in motel rooms, everyone in the bullpen knows that never happens in real life. Ever. The dirtbags turning state's evidence to save their asses are never saving a beautiful ass. They're always saving an ugly ass.

He snorts at the picture that forms out of his thoughts.

Art looks over. "Tim. Something funny?"

"Nope."

"Sure you don't want to share?"

"I was just thinking that for once I'm grateful to be on prisoner transport."

"Nelson, you take Tim's spot on the prisoner transport for him. I hate to see him happy. Tim, you've got Sandoval."

"Yessir," Tim says aloud and loudly, cheerful, grins like an idiot. "I hate my boss," he then says behind a hand wiped slowly across his mouth, quietly, head bent down. It's for the benefit of his neighbor only, the last comment.

Raylan leans over and whispers back, "Apparently not as much as he hates you."

Art's not smiling in a nice way when he turns again to Raylan and Tim's side of the room and says, "And Raylan, Reardon asked for a deputy, named you personally. He's taken a real shine to you."

The cowboy hat shifts to hide the look of long-suffering. "What does he want this time?"

"He wants to feel safe. There've been threats."

"Again?"

"Again. And you're his shadow until further notice."

"But…"

"But…?"

"But the thing I'm chasing, the Crawley warrant..." Raylan offers the excuse, hoping it'll buy him a pass. He knows it's lame.

"Right, Crawley. Rachel, you can take that over, free up Raylan for Reardon."

"Shit." The hat can't hide the disappointment.

And Tim smirks over at Raylan. "I'd rather be hated by Art than loved by Reardon."

"I hate you too, Tim."

There's an uncaring grin for that, and Tim stands up and reaches across his desk for the folder Art is waving at him. He flips to the photo, and sure enough, it's an ugly asshole.

"A deputy from Las Cruces is delivering him, somebody Taylor. Flight gets in just after two. Don't be late."

"A snitch by the look of him." There's nothing of the innocent bystander in that face.

"No doubt."

"So who's he snitching on to get hidden away up here in Lexington? Heisenberg?"

Art gets the reference but refuses to crack a smile. "I said Las Cruces, not Albuquerque."

"Whoa. That's got to be the new benchmark for ugly." Peering over the divider, Raylan screws his face into a knot of distaste. "I think Reardon's better looking."

Tim sighs loudly, drops the folder and dumps himself back in his chair. "I keep hoping for Scarlett Johansson to witness a murder. Honestly though, I'd settle for someone who's decent to talk to."

"You don't think Miss Johansson would be decent to talk to?"

"I wouldn't care if she was or not. Would you?"

"Probably not…for the first month."

"So we agree on something."

He turns his attention reluctantly to the job at hand, gets his end of the paperwork together, crosses and dots and John Hancocks in all the right places, then tops up his coffee and leans back in his chair, feet on his desk, and starts on the file. He's meticulous, page one, reads the contact report, the name of the liaising officer with the DEA, then known affiliations, priors, goes through the entire pile, through to page whatever – he's lost count. When he's done he flips back to the photo and mouths, "Fuck you, asshole," to the flattering mugshot. He swivels his chair to stand and stretch and sees Art, the lip reader, glowering in his direction. Tim grins for him. It's a daily occurrence.

* * *

 

The airport is busy. It's mostly business people midweek, the only ones who would bother finding a connector into Lexington rather than taking the busier leg into Louisville and a bus or limo from there. Louisville is fun to visit, but he prefers Lexington. It feels more grounded to him – the bars a little more casual, the service a little more personal. Maybe it's his imagination and he just likes being at home and Lexington is now home. He's seen enough of the world – thank you very much. He can see himself happily living out his days never leaving this city. Somehow though he doubts the Marshals Service will indulge that particular fantasy and he amuses himself thinking about where he might like to go next while he waits for the flight to arrive.

Seattle is a consideration – he has good memories from his time in Washington State with the Second Battalion at Fort Lewis, even if it does rain a lot there. He reminds himself that that was Tacoma really, not Seattle, and Seattle is too big a city for his taste. He likes the idea of a smaller office. There's a side of him that would welcome being posted to Montana or South Dakota or Utah. Or one of the 'A' options – Alaska, Alabama, Arkansas. Not exactly a good career move, but the more he thinks about it, sitting in an uncomfortable vinyl chair at arrivals, the more he likes the idea of a sparse population. People get under his skin. Who cares about career as long as there's a decent rifle range nearby?

He checks the board again, sees the flight he's waiting for has arrived so he stands up and wanders over to security and shows his badge and the paperwork and gets a pass to the gate. He leans against the wall and watches the passengers unload, oversized carry-on and laptops in shoulder bags and all of them looking hassled. He tries to define a type, a New Mexico type, but the group defies any patterning except that they all look hassled, and relieved to be off the airplane. He remembers too that this is a leg from Dallas, people from all over the southern states, not just New Mexico.

There's a gap in the group, a pause before the finale, and then two men appear, last to deboard. Tim pushes off the wall and saunters over to cut them off before they get to the magical airport security barrier.

"Deputy Marshal Taylor?" he says, addressing the face he doesn't recognize from a mugshot.

"That'd be me," says the man. "Gutterson?" Taylor smiles wearily when Tim nods, then he holds out a hand for paperwork and ID to make the exchange official.

Tim looks over his new ward, Jesus Sandoval, while Taylor looks over the transfer papers. Taylor looks like he's rid of a bad cold, or like he's about to go on holiday; Tim doesn't.

"When's your flight back?" says Tim.

"Twenty minutes if I'm lucky. Thanks for saving me another trip through security."

"No problem. Enjoy the flight home."

"Two fucking connections to get back today. Worth it though."

"Shit. Love the small hops." He doesn't miss the look of loathing that Taylor shoots Sandoval.

Taylor shrugs and turns without another word and beelines it to the nearest airport employee for directions and then he's gone.

Tim watches him until he disappears around a corner then he turns to Sandoval. "Let's go. Got a lovely seventies bungalow for you. Quiet street. Respectable neighbors. Public school only two blocks away. Prime Lexington real estate."

"Are you a US Marshal or a fucking real estate agent?"

"I'm your babysitter, or didn't they tell you?"

"Whose idea was it to fucking put me in Kentucky?"

"You don't like Kentucky?" Tim waves him through to the public area of the terminal, leads the way to the parking lot.

"I fucking hate Kentucky."

Tim smirks. Sandoval's reaction makes him ridiculously happy. Makes the job almost bearable.

* * *

 

He decides to serenade Sandoval on the way to his new house, his new life. He finds the top 40 country hits station and starts wailing with whoever it is who's singing. He doesn't know the words. He doesn't even know the tune, though that wouldn't matter.

"Fucking Christ. Stop singing. You suck. This song sucks."

And that makes him ridiculously happy too. That's twice in one hour. "You don't like country? Too bad you ended up in Kentucky. Shoulda made some different life choices. A bit late for that though, huh?" He's pressing the seek button while he talks, skipping from station to station until he finds what he's looking for, some death metal. He turns it up and starts singing along with that. He doesn't know the tune – not that there is one. He doesn't know the words. It doesn't matter. He can see the red burn deepening on Sandoval's face.

"I said, shut the fuck up!"

"No."

"You have to do what I say. I'm a witness. I got federal protection."

"Did they not explain how this works?" Tim flicks a finger between him and Sandoval. "I have to keep you from getting killed. That's _all_ I have to do."

"Your singing is fucking killing me."

He grins, happier than he's been all day, sings louder.

"Fucking asshole." Sandoval rolls down his window and sticks his head out to get as far away as possible from Tim's singing. "Maybe I'll fucking kill you instead." _  
_

A few heads turn their way from the sidewalk.

"Now that'd get you kicked out of WITSEC, right quick."

The next song starts up and so does Tim. He taps out the rabid kick drum on the steering wheel while he waits for a green light.

* * *

 

"Here's your new name, new address, new life, at least until the US Attorney's Office decides they're ready for your testimony. You are not to contact anyone. No one. Got it?"

"This fucking sucks."

"And who do you have to blame for that?"

"Fuck you. Am I allowed out?"

"So they didn't explain how this works."

"Yeah, for four fucking hours. Blah, blah, blah."  Sandoval moves his hand to imitate talking, gets it aggressively in Tim's face.  "I've signed enough fucking papers..."

"Then you know the answer to that question." He points vaguely east. "Grocery store around the corner. Beer store. I think there's a porn shop too. The Marshals Service sure is considerate. There'll be a plainclothes officer outside watching for a while – orders from D.C. Apparently somebody prefers you breathing, hard to believe as that is. If you spot them, don't be an asshole and approach them. And you can play whatever music you like in here, but if I'm visiting, be warned, I like to sing along."

"Why do you have to visit?"

"They pay me to. I'm the babysitter. I have to look in on you now and then and make sure you're not fucking up and breaking house rules. By the way, you break it, you pay for it."  The last part isn't strictly true, but it's fun to say.

"I dare you to try and collect."

He grins – "I'd like that" – hands Sandoval a cell phone. "My number's saved in there. Use it if you need it." He opens the door to leave. "We've bugged your phone."

"You can't do that."

"Fine. Rescind your offer to snitch and give me back the house keys." Tim pulls a set of handcuffs off his belt. "I'd be happy to arrest you for…uh, let me see if I can get it all out without having to take a breath…" He takes in a big breath.

"I fucking hate cops."

"I fucking hate scumbags. Welcome to Lexington, Mr. Sandoval. Enjoy your stay."

* * *

 

Art has taken pity on him for drawing the short straw for assignments, has suggested a drink at the end of the day. Raylan considers it an open invitation and leads the way out to the bar.

"So, was he as bad as he looks in his picture?" Raylan makes a face over his glass as he asks the question.

Tim stares back a minute trying to decide if the face is for the greedy end-of-day mouthful of whiskey that Raylan just swallowed too quickly or if he's reacting again to the mugshot from that morning – Sandoval's ugly face. He realizes it doesn't really matter which and answers the question.

"Absolute fucking lowlife fucking asshole."

Art sighs like a school teacher. "Tim, do you have to talk like that all the time?"

"I tone it down for Rachel. It hurts. I have to double it up then for Raylan or else all those fucks get stuck in my throat and I might explode one day at work when it's not appropriate. You wouldn't want that."

Art holds up a hand to stop the bullshit. "I had no idea you were only being considerate when you swear so much."

"I'm generally underappreciated."

Raylan holds up a hand at the same time as Art, gets the attention of their server, signals another round.

"Chief," says Tim, "can a snitch in WITSEC complain about their treatment from me?"

"Why?"

"Just wondering."

"They can certainly complain if you're abusive, or not diligent in your duties."

He appears to be considering Art's response, nods once. "What would you consider abusive?"

"Tim..."

Tim and Raylan are laughing now, happily accept the drinks that the waitress sets on the table. Even Art is smiling and comments on the contents of Sandoval's file. He and Tim give Raylan the Coles Notes version of a jacket of evil and villainy.

"Shit," says Raylan. "They always do everything bigger out west."

"You should've seen Taylor. He looked like he was gonna be sick, happier than shit to offload that asshole on me. He had himself booked on the next flight back. He turned and ran once he had the papers in hand."

"You know, I wasn't really punishing you this morning when I reassigned you," says Art. "I was told to handle this one with care, give him to somebody I trust. I guess the DEA is wetting themselves they're so excited about the names your guy is offering up. You just opened your mouth at the right moment and made my choosing between you and Rachel easier."

"Whoever they are that he's naming, they'd better be worth it. I'm trying to imagine a scummier fucking scumbag than that fucking scumbag. I'd think I'd won the scumbag lottery if I'd bagged this asshole."

Art sighs again but doesn't bother commenting on the language. "That was a compliment, by the way. In case you missed it."

Tim thinks back through the conversation, says, "How exactly did you get your wife to marry you if that is your idea of a compliment?"

* * *

 

Sandoval.

He struggles against the name, not wanting to think it every time he wakes up, but the beep and drip seem to spell it out in Morse code. Sandoval. How the fuck did that asshole become so central in his life? He doesn't deserve the attention. He deserves a bullet.

The doctor walks in and smiles when he sees his patient awake. "Good morning, Mr. Gutterson. My staff say you were downright perky yesterday afternoon. Let's have a look at those lungs and see if we can't get you off that machine. I'll bet you'd like a drink."

The thought of water pushes Sandoval aside for a time, makes the removal of the tube easier to bear. He wonders as he's gagging that he thought of water when the doctor said 'a drink'. Not even two weeks ago he would've thought of whiskey. The world changes that fast.

Fucking Sandoval.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

An infection sets in, or likely had already set in before he was found and taken to the hospital. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to do anything.

"Tim?"

It's Rachel. He opens his eyes when she says his name. His throat is too raw to answer her so he just nods or shakes his head, bare movement for either. He's hoping not to set off another explosion of coughing, pain like kicks to the ribs between the gulps of searing air that burn through his lungs and loosen the blood and mucus and then detonate more explosions. The air is let in with distrust, carefully, slowly; let out begrudgingly, knowing that it will disturb the leftovers from a good beating if it leaves too abruptly, or awaken the angry throat on the way.

But the tube is out and that's a small mercy. There's liquid allowed now.  Tepid water – it tastes and feels better than any beer or bourbon he's ever tried under any circumstance. And that's saying something considering his work history.

Rachel has asked him a question, but he's not quite in the room with her, only a portion of him listening. _What?_ She recognizes the expression, confusion, and repeats her question but with more detail.

"A woman came by asking about you, came by the office, about five-five, blonde. She said she was a friend? Tara?"

 _Tara? Who the fuck…?_ He must still be looking confused because Rachel starts again.

"A woman…a young woman came by the courthouse looking for you. She said she knew you and wanted to know where you were. Her name is Tara. Raylan talked to her and said she knew enough about you that she was likely legit, harmless anyway. He figured you were dating maybe?"

_Tara. Right, Tara._

The thought of Tara makes him tired, more than he already is. He has no desire to see her again, none. Take away all the distractions and it's clear he has no feelings for her, and it's not a surprise either. Maybe he's discovered a way to cut to the chase, get through the dating bullshit and right to the part where you know it's not good. It's a bit extreme though, not for everyone, his method of testing a relationship, but here it is: get tortured, beaten and left to die, then see how you feel about the woman you've been screwing and whose company you've been pretending to enjoy, pretending even to yourself. Does he want to see Tara right now? _Fuck._ No. Anytime soon? _No._ Fuck.

"Is she your girlfriend?"

He nods without thinking, still amazed at the piercing truth of his disdain for the woman he has given his time and effort to the last couple of months.

"Do you want us to tell her where you are so she can visit?"

He shakes his head emphatically, _no,_ too vigorously, and it rattles the fluids in his chest and he tries to hold it back but the cough comes out in a spasm, wracking, agony enough for an entire year and already his third time since they took the tube out and changed the meds that morning.

Rachel exudes sympathy, rubs her hand in a rhythm on his back as he rolls and curls, more to soothe herself because it's doing nothing for him.

"Okay," she says. "It's okay."

It's not fucking okay. It fucking sucks. But he hasn't got the energy to get angry about it, not after the coughing.

* * *

 

Duct tape really is a useful tool, he thinks, struggling against the roll of it that has him bound without feeling to the chair he's in. It's better than a zip tie. He's properly balled up, going nowhere for what must be two hours now. He has time to think while he tries to pick at the edges of the tape. He thinks about his situation.

Getting captured is high on his list of things that freak him out, and for good reason. Being a prisoner of war in a country like Afghanistan is a frightening prospect. Most of the Taliban probably have no idea where Geneva is, and certainly don't give a shit about any conventions of war even if they have been to Switzerland. And any coalition soldier who denies that it scares him shitless to consider that situation - _prisoner of war_ – is either lying to himself or brain dead. It doesn't take much imagination to scare yourself stupid thinking about it, thinking about the what-ifs. In fact, you don't need any imagination. The stories told and retold, circulating through the base, they still haunt him – true or not true, exaggerated or downplayed, it doesn't matter.

All those thoughts, they ran circles in your head, even if you weren't aware of them, and consequently it was hard to settle down after a deployment, not to jump at every unexpected noise, not to be instantly and violently alert waking up. It was a good thing they kept you busy – block leave and then more training and then more training. Even now, four years later, off duty, he's still obsessively aware of his surroundings, the doors and windows, the recesses and the shadows, movement in the periphery. It would embarrass him because he'd think it must get boring for the people with him, but he promises himself as he works against the duct tape that he won't give a fuck what anyone thinks about it, not after this. That some assholes got the jump on him… He promises himself that he won't ever let it embarrass him again. This will only happen once. Shit, maybe this is his only time anyway. He decides not to think about that. It's not statistically likely they'll kill him, if there even is a statistic about kidnapped law enforcement personnel.

His right leg is going numb. The chair is hard.

He struggles again, uselessly and frustrated, and then goes still. Someone will find him soon. He tells himself this every quarter hour or so: someone will find him soon. There's a trail to follow, what he did today that got him taped in this chair, and he follows it back, trying to find the exact place where someone will likely pick it up, and how it will lead them here. Of course they have to know he's missing first, they have to be actually looking for him. When might they start wondering? Probably not until midday tomorrow unless he's really lucky and someone needs to get a hold of him early for something. Maybe Sandoval is trying to reach him. The thought almost makes him laugh. Not likely. So he has to wait another twenty-four hours. Then someone will come. He can do that. He can wait. He might have to piss in his pants though, if it takes that long.

But the only people who come through the door into the room while he's waiting for the twenty-four hours to pass, and then beyond that, are people that he doesn't want to see. They're not familiar; they're not very nice. They have a question, just one: Where is he? And Tim remains stubbornly silent. Must be pride, he thinks, as the first consequence of his silence slams hard into the side of his head. He can't imagine why else he would take a hit to keep these assholes from finding that other asshole. They should all be together anyway, all the assholes, some kind of segregation, an apartheid based solely on shitty attitude. Race, creed, skin color, sex, sexual orientation, none of that would matter one bit. You'd either be an asshole or not, and if you were, you'd have to go with the other assholes. He wonders if anyone would protest that kind of profiling and discrimination. He takes the thought further while his vision clears. There would have to be lines drawn, definitions. What's an asshole? The idea loses merit when he realizes that he would likely be lumped in with the assholes by some sub-clause of the legal ruling on assholes. After all, he's been called an asshole often enough.

"Look, don't be an asshole. Just fucking tell us – where is he?"

There you go.

They pinch his nose and cover his mouth until his lungs develop vocal cords and scream in protest, but only in his head and only for his ears, and he almost blacks out. He can't bring himself to lick the hand that's blocking the air, but the thought crosses his mind.

The second time he blacks out.

* * *

 

"Did you have to laugh in her face?" says Tara, spite and spit flying. "Why are you being such an asshole about this?"

"An asshole? It's fucking grass. Get her a bag of grass seed. This is Kentucky. It'll grow back."

He can't understand what the drama is all about. Some asshole missed the stop sign and drove up on her sister's lawn in the middle of the night. The guy was drunk. He had his license suspended. He's facing charges. The scene's a comedy, not a tragedy. And they want him to intervene, see the arresting officer? No way.

"She's proud of that lawn. She puts a lot of work into it."

"I think she's made that point well and fucking truly. You'd think he'd run over one of her kids." He thinks maybe she should work harder at disciplining her kids, refrains from saying it.  He's in enough shit with Tara.

"Christ, you're such an asshole."

"And I think you've made that point well and fucking truly. Can we change the subject now?  I'm not getting involved.  It's stupid." 

Tara calls him an asshole again and storms out, screaming on the way.  "You don't get to decide what's important to someone else. What the fuck do you know anyway? You've got nothing but work and your stupid guns."

I know what's important, he thinks, and a fucking perfect lawn to impress the neighbors is not. But try telling her sister that. This is the woman who is married to the man who hoses his driveway down every weekend. Every Saturday morning he's out on his long driveway with the hose and the spray nozzle and he wets down the entire thing, top to bottom. Water is not a renewable resource, he thinks. Water is precious in most places in the world. Water is important.

And now he's thirsty, thinking about Tara's sister's husband spraying fresh potable water down the driveway into the sewer system. His throat hurts and he's well beyond thirsty and into the dangerously dehydrated zone and it makes him angry thinking about that perfect lawn.

Angry, under the circumstances, is good – it keeps him focused. And bad – it makes him stupidly stubborn.

"Where is he?"

" _Fuck you."_

They break his finger, move on to the next.

"Where is he?"

* * *

 

SERE school isn't mandatory in the Rangers. With all the training he had to do that _was_ mandatory – regimental, battalion, platoon, squad, and special weapons training – and then regular combat rotations, he never had the opportunity. He wonders now if he regrets not finding the time. Maybe it would've helped him prepare for this. He doubts it. What could they have taught him about escaping duct tape? What can anyone teach you about dealing with pain? What could they have said about the code of conduct for a US Marshal when protecting a witness who is as much a scumbag as the scumbags who want to find him and kill him? Guaranteed they don't teach that in SERE school. At least in the army you'd be motivated to keep your mouth shut under torture just to try to protect your buddies. That was everything.  Everything.  But protect Sandoval? That fucking grates. It's hard enough dealing with the pain without having to work to convince yourself to hold out.  Fucking Sandoval.  Fucking piece of shit.

He thinks that the only important thing is being able to live with yourself, being able to face yourself in the mirror at the end of the day and be okay with whatever action you decide to take, or not take. What else matters? But he's tired, and his ribs and hands are taking turns thrashing at his sanity and he starts to doubt himself. Is it worth your life to hold onto pride and save the scumbag? What good is all that moral superiority if you're not around long enough to enjoy it? On the other hand, if you give up the scumbag, get yourself the fuck out of this situation, and even if you're okay with it, what happens if the rest of the world isn't? Can you live like that, knowing that everyone around you thinks you're a coward? Is it bravery if that's your only motivation, avoiding looking like a pussy? And is there a difference? It's complicated. He had plenty of time to experience it and observe it in the Rangers. You got through whatever you had to get through because you weren't going to be the guy who pussied out. He doesn't think the motivation matters so much as the end result.

"Where is he?"

He was going to answer this time, just to stop it all, but he gets carried away with his mirage of reasoning and forgets to. He's thinking. He's thinking hard, and the metal pipe comes hard before he can remember that he's decided to call it quits. Something gives, whether bone or pride or reason, he's not sure. Something breaks, and everything collapses.


	4. Chapter 4

"Does that make him stupid or noble?"

"I suspect they go hand in hand."

"Go fuck yourselves." He rasps it out and it has no teeth. "I swore an oath, okay. I swore an oath. You did too."

Raylan and Art are grinning, relieved to see Tim awake and talking and pissy. It's a bit of normalcy in a crazy couple of weeks.

"So it was Sandoval they wanted." Art makes a noise in the back of his throat, disgust and disbelief. "You should've just given him up, oath or no oath. Did you read his file?"

"Of course he read his file, Art. This is Tim we're talking about."

"But I think I did give him up," says Tim, grateful for the raw voice so there is no emotion trace in the delivery of his confession. "I'm not sure. I can't remember. It's all so fucking messed up. Maybe I imagined it. He's fine?"

"Well, you didn't imagine this beating, so you must've held out, and for quite a while, and yes, he's fine." Art pulls a chair close to the bed and sits down and looks hard at Tim, questioning. "We put a twenty-four hour guard on any WITSEC cases connected with this bureau until we could organize moving them. Everyone's fine."

Tim is vaguely disappointed, a little angry, a bit lost. "Everyone's fine?"

"Well, everyone but you. How you feeling today?"

"Peachy."

"Terrific. So why aren't you back at work?"

"I'm milking it."

Art nods at the joke, but he's not laughing.

"That was a joke," says Tim.

Raylan's smirking, but it drops quickly and he leaves quickly when the phlegm catches on the word 'joke' and Tim crumples into another attack of violent coughing. Art waits it out and gets some water; Raylan sends a nurse in.

* * *

 

A face peeks in his room; he sees her through the slits his eyes are granting the world, through the haze of good drugs. It's a small round face with the remains of the baby in the cheeks, hair in cornrows marked with pink baubles. She slips in the door and tiptoes over to his bed. It's a comedy. Her movements careful and carefree as she examines the machinery, the figure in the bed, curious.

"Boo," he says.

Her eyes flatten out wide and dark brown, fear, and she runs away, out into the hall. _Boo._ It's not meant to frighten and she seems to figure that out, sneaks back into the room two minutes later, but stays back by the door, watchful.

He pretends to be asleep, watches her.  She steps closer, reaches out to touch the bed, daring.

"Ow."  He opens his eyes.

She jumps back.  "I didn't touch you," she says, playful.

"You hurt the bed."

"I did not."  Hands on hips. 

He thinks of Rachel at four years old.  He tries out a smile for his visitor.  "What's your name?" he says.

"Cecilia."

"Really?"

"Cecilia Rose."

"That's quite some name."

"It's grandma's name too."

"Hm."

"What's your name?"

"Tim."

"Tim."  She repeats it back. 

It's a very small word coming out of her mouth, tiny.  It sounds appropriately small to him.  It dregs up an emotion he doesn't recognize, doesn't want to recognize.  It grows large and fast and he's shaken by it and close to tears.  She's come closer, reaches out a small finger and pokes the skin on his hand between the splint on his middle finger and the tape around the intravenous tube and _pop,_ the emotion bursts and dissipates, disappears as quickly as it came.  He watches her hand as it reaches out a second time to touch the tube and he anticipates more magic from it.

 _Cecilia!_ comes from the hall and she stiffens, puts a hand up to cover the 'oh' her mouth makes, turns and darts out the door. Tim smiles again before he realizes what he's doing and when he does realize it he leaves the smile there to enjoy how it feels. But it turns wooden quickly and he lets it go and it's lost to the present.

Raylan pushes into the room not ten seconds later. Tim imagines Raylan passing by Cecilia Rose in the hallway and a picture forms of him and Cecilia Rose face-to-face – a dichotomy of figures, a staredown. He smirks, can't decide who'd win the standoff.

"What are you smiling about?" says Raylan. "Wet dream?"

"I was imagining a four-year-old pulling on you and winning the draw."

"What drugs they got you on now?"

"Pink baubles, comes up to your knees." Tim's chuckling now.

"How hard did they hit you?"

"Come here and I'll demonstrate."

Raylan pulls a chair over, over to the spot where Cecilia was standing only a minute ago. The world changes that fast, he thinks.  It's not the first time he's thought it these past weeks.  He's truly realizing it, is still marveling at how quickly things can go from light to heavy – pink baubles to a jaded Stetson – while he watches Raylan attempt to wrestle down a black mood. That's what Raylan has brought into the room with him – a black mood. Tim can see it in the set of his mouth, the way Raylan is looking at his hat in his hands now, the monotone rhythm of his voice. If he's onto something, Raylan's engaged, every part of him, trying to sell you his excitement by looking straight at you and using his enthusiasm to hook you into his schemes. But the look he saves for his hat – fidgeting with it like he is now – is either anger or frustration. Today Tim guesses it's both. He thinks maybe there's an evil spirit possessing that hat and it talks to Raylan, urges him to do something immoral when he's weak. And Raylan is weakest when he's frustrated. Tim doesn't want to interrupt the conversation – it's always a promise of entertainment when Raylan converses with his hat – so he waits.

"Art doesn't want any of us on this anymore. He says DC's taken it over."  He's talking to the hat.

"If Art says so."

Raylan looks up sharply, reads something in the tone. "And what exactly are you going to do about it, Tim? You're still in a bed, and you're going to be here for a bit and then..."  He looks back at his hat.

It comes across a bit insulting but he doesn't take it that way. It's a statement of fact from a frustrated lawman. "I'm only thirty, Raylan. I got a few years left to look after stuff that needs looking after."

"Cold trail is rarely fruitful."

"Unless it's cold vengeance you're working. Goes well together then."

He feels a cough coming, holds it back but a little spasm of air escapes. The look of panic on Raylan's face is comical enough for a good laugh but he doesn't dare. The coughing is just waiting for that opportunity. He reaches out a hand and Raylan scrambles to put the water glass in it. Tim takes a quick sip and puts out the ember.

"You alright?" Raylan looks ready to bolt. "You want me to get someone?"

Tim swallows another sip of water and shakes his head. "I'm fine."

Raylan doesn't look convinced. "You sure?" When he receives a nod, he nods back to reassure himself, sits back in the chair. "Okay."

Tim nods again, sips more water.

Raylan sets his hat on the rolling table along with his frustration, an evil grin chasing out the black mood. "Seems Rachel's taken over the handling of your love life. Tara? That her name?" He makes a noise like a dog finding peas in the bottom of the dish after a thin helping of beef stew, shakes his head. "Nice to look at but…"

"It's done."

"Well if it wasn't before, it is now. She wasn't too happy to be left out of the picture."

"Rachel didn't tell her what happened?"

"No, you told her not to, she said."

"I think I did. Don't quite remember."

"You change your mind?"

"No."

"Like that, huh?"

"Yep."

"It's all good then."

"It's all good. Tell Rachel thanks."

"Tell her yourself. She's coming by after work."

"Why are you here then?"

"I just want you to know I'm not leaving this alone. Just between us – you think of anything, you tell me."

"Get anything from the sketches?"

"Nope. Not yet."

Raylan stands up, languid and ropy, settles his Stetson on his head. He gets to the door and turns back, a step or two toward the bed looking at his feet, thinking. "I don't get it. Why did they just leave you alone after all that?"

"What d'you mean?"

"I mean, they were prepared to beat you to death – which they very nearly did – why take any chance of leaving you alive when they got the information they were looking for?"

"Maybe they weren't done. Maybe they wanted to check and see if I was lying and then come back. Like I said, I'm not sure what I remember happened or not. It's all a fucking… Maybe I didn't tell them. I don't really fucking care at this point." He's tired of talking about it.

Raylan is looking at him, questioning, and it makes him feel guilty but he has no idea why.

"Lucky for you then those kids found you when they did."

"Lucky me."

"Yeah, lucky you. Alright, then. See you later."

"Yep."

Raylan leaves this time, all the way out the door without another thought interrupting the departure. Tim runs splinted fingers through his greasy hair after the door closes, takes a cautious breath, presses his fingertips along the stitches now bared to the world on his left cheekbone. Counts them again.

* * *

 

It's all he thinks about now. He tries to put some order to it, more for his sanity than for any investigation. A day or two in and it gets blurry and he can't sort out what's real, what really occurred, and what played out in his head in a delirium of pain and fear.

They nabbed him early, real early, Friday morning at his house. That much he knows for certain. A late run, still on the clock past midnight, following a thin lead to a dance club in the small hours. Stopping for gas. He decided to run home first and get something decent to eat since he missed dinner. His source told him that this guy whose warrant he was chasing always closed the club down so he had time. There must've been someone watching him leave the courthouse, then two guys waiting for him by his garage. His garage is in the yard, connected to the street by a narrow laneway between the side door of his house and a chain-link fence woven into something more solid by his neighbor's cedar hedge. He hadn't expected to be so late, no lights on. Private. He likes that about his house. He can sit in the yard and not have to smile for his neighbors. Good place for an ambush. Bastards.

You hit a guy hard enough and he'll go down.

He doesn't remember the ride. He came to taped to a chair. Fucking chair. He sat alone for a while, wondering: _what the fuck?_

He didn't have to wonder too long. They were polite about not keeping him waiting. Bastards.

"Where is he?"

He remembers his head tilting, mouth taped. _Who?_ Dipshits. _Can't tell you shit with my mouth taped shut._ He thought they were pretty fucking stupid at the time.

"Sandoval." And they tore off the tape.

His first thought was: _Sandoval must know something important._ His second thought was: _how the fuck did they find him? Find me?_

There's only one way. He knows this with the same certainty that he knows the feel of his rifle when it's set right against his shoulder, and the drink past which the evening will end in a hangover. And he knows that Art must know it too. It's the only answer. There is no other. Someone must've squealed. Someone from the Marshals Service.

The soldier in him feels nauseous. The soldier in him is angry and ready to do battle. Fucking traitor.

* * *

 

"I know, Tim. It's the only way they could've known to target you."

"What are we gonna do about it?"

" _We?_ Nothing. _You_ are going to convalesce. _Me,_ I'm already looking into Taylor and the rest of the office at Las Cruces, but through DC. It's on the hush."

 _Fucking politics,_ thinks Tim. No one wants it out there that the United States Marshals Service WITSEC program just took a hit to the SEC part.

"It's only the Director and a special investigative team that's in on this. So no one knows about it" – Art wags his head in his comic way – "except you and me and Raylan and Rachel and Nelson and well…the rest of the Lexington office. I don't believe for a minute that it was someone here though. And if it was, it's too late now to keep it under wraps. Everyone's already signed your get well card." Art picks up the card that's fallen over on the table and sets it upright, pats it. "Nice card too. Leslie picked it out. She wants to know if it's okay with you if she comes by. She'll bring you something better to eat than you're getting here if you feel up to it, she said." His voice trails off and he looks at Tim looking at him and they're both thinking along the same lines. "I think it'll end up being someone in Las Cruces. I'm almost as sorry about that as I would be if it was someone here."

Tim doesn't say anything in response. What can he say? He wants to reassure Art that he doesn't believe it's anyone from Lexington either. And he truly doesn't. But to say it makes it a lie somehow, even if it's not. It sucks. It breeds distrust.

Art pulls the chair over and sits down heavily. "They're investigating everyone here too, just in case." He looks out the window. In sympathy with the mood in the room a cloud passes somewhere beyond the glass, blocks them from the late afternoon autumn sunlight and douses Art's face in sober shadow and gloom. "But that's between you and me," he says.

* * *

 

Cecilia Rose is back. He smiles for her. She hopscotches the linoleum squares over to his bedside. She traces the intravenous tube, stops when her finger gets near the bandage on his hand.

"Hey," he says, turns his head and shifts an eyebrow. "What're you doing sneaking around the hospital?"

She looks up, fast, looks away faster, ignores his question. She's already figured out that he's not a threat in his current condition. "What is that?"

"Antibiotics and stuff."

Her face screws up and she huffs. "What?"

"Medicine. It goes right into my arm so I don't have to swallow anything that tastes yucky."

"Oh." That makes sense to her and she nods, satisfied that once again the universe is within the realm of her comprehension. "What's that?" This time she points to his hand, the splint.

"It's to keep me from bending my fingers while the bones heal."

"Oh."

He asks her a question before she can point to something else. "Are you a doctor?"

She shakes her head and the stiff cornrows with bright baubles in the ends of the braids travel with the motion. "Mama's with the doctor."

"Hm. Does she know you're in here?"

"What's wrong with you?"

He thinks about it, says, "I got beat up by some bad guys."

She makes the 'oh' again but doesn't cover it. "Mama did, too."

The concern is instant on; the lawman is angry. Before he can settle his instincts enough to say something comforting to a child his door opens and a young woman peers in much like Cecilia did the first time.

"Cecilia Rose!" A harsh whisper and the woman motions frantically at the girl. "Get out of there." Then she catches Tim's eye. "Sorry," she says for the adult. She steps into the room fully and comes closer and tries not to look but her eyes linger on the stitches and the bandages, taking stock and drawing conclusions. She avoids his eyes now. "I'm sorry to bother you. Come on, honey. Leave the man to rest."

"It's alright," he says, smiles to reassure, to pretend he hasn't noticed the marks on her too. "I was bored. It's alright."

"I'm sorry." She repeats it twice while she rounds up Cecilia and hounds her to the door. "I'm sorry."

"It's not a problem," he says and the door closes softly on his last word.


	5. Chapter 5

Cecilia Rose has become a regular guest. Whoever's sitting guard outside his hospital room during her visits must not consider her a threat. Tim's amused. She usually brings a juice box and some chewy candies and she'll share with him but he gets the colors she doesn't like, the green ones and the yellow ones. He declines the offer of juice, though she persistently shoves the chewed straw near his mouth. He's trained her to fill his water glass.

He wonders if her mother knows where she sneaks away to. She must. It's been his experience that people tend to let their guard down in a hospital, calling sanctuary in their minds like they're in a church in the old days. But there's no sanctuary. Not really. He knows. He's read arrest reports of crimes in hospitals. No place is safe. No place. Maybe she knows that too. Maybe she likes that her daughter is in the room that's guarded 24/7 by federal officers with guns. And he admits to himself that he must look pretty harmless. It takes everything he has in him to sit up and eat his meals.

The little girl has brought something with her today and she shows him – a deck of cards that her mother bought her at the gift shop downstairs. It's a memory game with pictures of ponies and princesses.

"Let's play," she says, completely certain that there's nothing he'd rather do than match up unicorns and rainbows and diamond tiaras.

"Okay," he says, because what else does he have to do, and it beats remembering what got him here.

He works himself to one side of the bed to make room when she pushes the table over, then the chair. It looks physically impossible that something that small could move something that big, but she manages, keen to play, and then climbs onto the dull and stained cream-colored vinyl seat and gets comfortable. She kneels up to get high enough to rest her elbows on the tabletop, her knees making little pools of shadow in the seat cushion. The box of cards is opened and she slides the deck out, gives the box a firm shake to be sure all the cards are in play, peers inside as a precaution. When she's satisfied she looks at her opponent, her business face on.

"I'll shuffle."

He doesn't argue.

She messes the cards face down on the table, purple and pink and yellow and baby blue spreading out under her sticky fingers. Tim tries hard to keep his face straight. This is a serious card game. He doesn't want to get kicked out for laughing.

"I go first," she says, and turns over two cards – a bunny and a crown. She puts them back face down and frowns.

"Close," he says.

"No." She shakes her head hard, over dramatic, turns one card back over. "That's a bunny," she says then turns over another card but not the one she originally picked. This one's a unicorn. The cards are at fault and she huffs to let him know it's not her that got it wrong, then she turns over another one. It's a castle. "What the…?" she says, an adult expression from her world.

"Try this one." He points awkwardly with a splinted finger.

"Oh." She looks at it and he imagines she's wondering how it got there. It's the crown she was looking for. She turns it around for Tim to see. "See, it's a crown."

"Right, I knew that. Looked like a bunny to me."

"You're silly."

"Be nice. I'm sick."

* * *

 

Rachel pushes open the door later, stops with it just wide enough to frame her face when she realizes Tim has company. She looks a question at him, then tilts her head and raises both her eyebrows and grins, shoulders shaking quietly, suppressed laughter.

Tim ignores the interruption. He's concentrating. They're on their second game. The first game ended in confusion and near tears and only the promise of another could salvage the afternoon. The meltdown is on hold while they play this one out, hoping for a better ending. Tim is holding a princess awkwardly between a thumb and the two fingers of his left hand which aren't taped into submission. Cecilia is holding his second card - he points and she does the flipping - a castle.  She's given up trying to steady it in his useless right hand.

"The princess lives in the castle," says Cecilia, pointing in order at the two cards.

"How do you know? She give you her address?"

"'Cause she's a princess."

"I suppose the prince lives there, too?"

"No. There's no prince. She lives with her mama and her grandma, dummy."

"I said be nice to me. I'm sick."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, he is," says Rachel and takes a step inside toward them.

Cecilia turns at the voice. One look at Rachel and she's down off the chair and out the door.

"Hey, you chased away my date.  I didn't even get her phone number."

"Your date?" Rachel walks over to the bed and helps Tim collect the cards left behind in the haste of the princess's escape.

"She looks like you," he says. "Almost as demanding. It's the closest I could get since you won't go out with me."

"You never asked."

"Wasted effort."

She gives him an appraising look, searches for that Tim snark, or maybe regret. "You're smarter than you look," she says when she catches the smirk.

There's the flint he knows so well.

"She looks like Shawnee did at that age." Rachel turns back to the door where Cecilia disappeared, thoughtful, absorbed in memories.

"Sorry."

A shrug, defensive. "It's okay." She takes over straightening the cards after watching Tim fumble with them, his fingers not any help. She slips them neatly into the box and sets them down. "She really does look like her. Who is she?"

"Princess Cecilia Rose."

The eyebrow arches high. "Oh my."

* * *

 

He's sitting up and texting a friend when Art walks in. "Could've used a rifle today," he says with no preamble and glares at Tim in a way to suggest that he's to blame for the shortage.

"Hostages?"

"No.  I was stuck doing your job, sitting in the van out of sight watching Raylan talk up someone for information.  I wanted to kill him."

"Which one?"

"Raylan.  Who'd you think?"  Art gives him a 'what, are you stupid?' expression.  "He went way outside our agreed upon script...again.  Chasing his own agenda."

He feels like he's onstage in a sixties sitcom. The same small cast of characters, the same room, the same furniture, entrances and exits on cue. Day after day into weeks. The room is so lacking in color it might as well be black and white. He imagines a canned laugh track while Art goes through the same motion of pulling the same chair over to the same spot so he can face Tim and talk. He settles into the chair with the same sigh, a penned character.

"What's so funny?" Art catches the half-grin on Tim.

"Nothing." He shifts his eyes in case Art can read what's in them. "It's just nice not to cough till I puke anymore. It'd make anyone happy." Again the imagined laugh track.

"Apparently that's true.  I was just talking to your doctor and he seems happy too. He says the infection has cleared up."

Tim grunts in response.

"You'll be heading home soon, he tells me. Tired of this room?"

"Tired of this entire year."

"It hasn't even been a month...or has it?"

"It feels longer." He rubs his fingers into his eyes and appreciates the sensation of freedom. No splints. It's still novel enough having fingers that don't hurt. He clenches his hands into fists and then stretches them out as far as he can. Mostly straight.

"Rehab," says Art, eyeing the reluctant digits. "How's the knee?"

"All this rest, it's healed fast. I can walk on it."

"Good."

He tries stretching his fingers again; his face knit in concentration.

"You be okay with a gun?"

He holds out a hand and Art obliges him, reaches into his jacket to unclip his holster, passes over his service weapon. "Don't shoot anybody with it. I have a reputation to uphold."

"That pussy reputation?" His right hand wraps around the grip, his left comes up instinctively to support it. He holds his arms out and lines up the sights, index finger stretched as straight as he can make it over the trigger guard.  He smiles.

"No, asshole," says Art.  He's watching Tim intently. _"Bring 'em in breathing._ That's my motto."

"You really want to be labelled with that?"

"Yes."

"Then why bother with the gun?"

"Makes me look cool."

"If you say so." Tim turns the Glock in his hands and offers Art the grip. "I'll be all right." He says it but he's not sure he believes it.

Art takes the weapon gingerly, puts it to bed in his shoulder holster, tucks the jacket around it nicely. Pat, pat. He points an accusing finger at Tim. "I didn't like the smile when you were aiming.  It had purpose in it. You have a target in mind?"

"Three, actually."

The breath that Art holds is quick and sharp going in, long and slow when it's let out. "I've been working on a little speech for you, for when they finally let you out of here."

"Boss…"  Tim holds up a hand to stop him.

"I think I might just give it to you right now since you're a captive audience."

"Chief…"

"So here it goes. You are not to chase this. In no way are you to investigate any aspect of Sandoval's past, present or future. You are a victim in this crime, not an investigator, not a vigilante, not a posse of one effing pissed-off Deputy US Marshal. You are not to cajole, guilt, threaten or bribe any member of the United States Marshals Service, including me, into giving up any information on the ongoing investigation, nor follow any new line of inquiry that might come to you as you remember details of your captivity or your conversations with Sandoval. If anything pops into that vengeance-filled little brain of yours, the only place it will see air is in my office, spoken out loud, to me, and I will forward it to the investigating team. The penalty for disregarding this advice…"

"Advice?"

"The penalty for disregarding this _order_ will be immediate suspension, or possible termination of a promising career. Are we clear?"

"You should've been a fucking lawyer."

"Tim, are we clear?"

"Fucking crystal. Now what do you think the odds are of my complying?"

"Tim…"

"Seriously, Chief. If this was you lying in this bed, still cringing with each breath, unsure you'll ever be able to hold a firearm properly again when it was your whole fucking life, still feeling like some piece of shit scraped off the bottom of some fucking loser's fucking shoe, what would you do? Am I coming in clear?"

"Tim…"

"I want my life back. Do you think that's going to be possible without some hands-on fucking retribution for all this pain and suffering? I don't. I can't see a future without that happening. You want some out loud intel? Well, here it is. Sorry we can't do this in your office, but..." Tim waves a hand, a sharp flick of frustration, to indicate the hospital setting.

"Tim, I…"

"I'm going to find the fuckers who did this and show them what happens when the playing field is leveled out. Three against one. All of us in the know. Me not taped to a chair. I'm going to fucking destroy them. I'm going to pay them back in kind, or at the very least shoot every last fucking one of them and I don't care if…"

"Tim…"

"What?!" He's coughing now, anger like grit in the air rushing from his chest and into the room, catching on every bit of scarred, inflamed, enraged tissue on the way. Coughing, and he can't stop it and it burns, but no worse now than the anger. He focuses on that. He thinks he hears Art saying something, something like: "Just don't get caught. Jesus Christ. I can only cover up so much."

* * *

 

He's stopped consciously trying to think about it. It hits like a gust of wind when you round a corner of a building and find yourself in the path of a storm that's been brewing while you were texting or sipping your coffee or just mindlessly walking. Knocks you off balance, unprepared. It takes a minute or two to button up your jacket properly and prevent it getting under your skin, or maybe you just lean into it and head for quick cover, or maybe you turn your back to it, unable to face it at that moment. It hits him often enough, the cold memories of a vicious beating, that he doesn't want to call it up on purpose anymore.

Fuck you, chair.

Fuck you, begging.

Fuck you.

Cecilia Rose skips into the room and the wind dies down. He sits up a little straighter and wipes the wet anger off his cheeks and smiles for her.

"Hey there, little miss.  I saved your cards for you." He points with his chin. "They're on the window ledge."

He watches her look around the room, everywhere but the window.

"By the window," he says again, points this time with a finger. Then he notices the woman standing in the doorway. He's glad he bothered to put on clothes today - a t-shirt and another shirt on top that he hasn't bothered to button. Too much work.

She smiles. "I understand you've been entertaining Ceci." She takes a step further into the room. "My mother had a stroke." She turns part way to the door, waves vaguely. "I've been visiting and…"

He looks over at the little girl. She's found her cards and is crouching without ceremony on the tile floor, sorting through them and pairing them up, making sure none are missing. She's holding a unicorn and searching the pile on the floor for its mate.

"Actually, she's been entertaining me," he says, and means it.

"Sorry."

"No, it's alright. Really."

There's a box in her hand, a bakery box, complete with string tied. She seems to become aware of it, holds it up to show him then takes a step or two more but not far enough, has to lean a little to set it on the table by the bed. "Ceci picked them out. I hope you like pink icing."

"I'll take it. Beats chocolate pudding…again. Thank you."

She smiles and it's shy and pretty and he is suddenly very interested to know who would dare hit her. He would very much like to meet him.

"You look better," she says then appears embarrassed to have said it. "Since the last time…I saw you."

"I think they'll let me go home some day." He doesn't say that she looks better too.

"Were you in a car wreck?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"I shouldn't pry."

"Then I won't either, unless you want me to."

The comment takes her by surprise and she takes a step back toward the door. "Cecilia Rose, what stories have you been telling?"

"She didn't say anything. Honest. I work in law enforcement. You get good at spotting the evidence. That's all."

"We should go." She's not looking at him anymore. "C'mon Ceci, honey. Time to clean up. Mama's waiting."

She hurries across the room and crouches down and starts picking up cards. Cecilia complains that she's not done. Tim wants to complain that he's not done either. They just got here. He feels responsible for the argument that's brewing between the girls. He slips awkwardly off the bed holding himself stiffly and limps over to help, sits on the floor with Cecilia because bending or crouching is more than he can manage. His fingers don't work well but he tries to pick up a card or two and eventually the woman leans across him for the errant cards and adds them to the deck then the cards are tucked away and Cecilia's mad and she whines that she hasn't played a game with Tim yet today and then begs, mama, please, and that's when Tim knows for certain the relationship. She looks young enough to be a sister - you never know. He can't tell. She's got a firm hold on Cecilia now and is pulling her toward the door while he works to get up onto his feet again.

"I didn't get a cookie."  The little girl is working up to tears.

"My name's Tim," he says, turning to look for the bakery box, trying to keep them a minute longer.

"I know," she says and reaches for the door handle and swings the door wide, pushes Cecilia through first.

He stands lost, watches the door close behind them.


	6. Chapter 6

Art picks him up at the hospital in the morning, solicitous, overly so. Every move Tim makes there's a hand out to protect, ready to intervene between him and a dangerous world. He feels like one of Art's kids and spares a moment from his resentful mood to pity them. He resents the wheelchair ride to the door; he resents the appointment already booked for rehab; he resents the instructions from the doctor and the prescription for pain medication that they have to fill before they can leave the building and that means another fifteen minutes sitting in the wheelchair; he resents Art's presence half an hour after arriving home, wishing he had time to himself; he resents the lunch that Leslie supplied for them that Art reheats in Tim's kitchen and the two of them devour. It's delicious. Art hovers while he waits for his replacement, trying every topic he can think of to keep the conversation off of the rehabilitation timeline, and more particularly the cause of that rehabilitation timeline. Art looks relieved when Nelson knocks not long after lunch; Tim doesn't. He doesn't want to let his coworker in but he resigns himself to the changing of the guard, not even trying to get up off the couch in time to race Art to the door.

"He can stay in the car. I don't need help sitting on the couch."

His suggestion is ignored. Despondent, he watches Art unlock the door. The whole maneuver looks awkward because Art is using his left hand to turn the deadbolt and then the knob, his right tucked defensively up against his shoulder holster, fingers on his service weapon, ready.

"It's only fucking Nelson," Tim says. He can see him through the front window. "I could kill him from here, and without a fucking gun."

Art shoots a look of disapproval Tim's way as he opens the door. "Really? I'd love to hear exactly how you'd do that."

Tim opens his mouth to oblige him with a description.

"Not now," says Art, snaps it out. Nelson is collateral damage, caught in the blast of annoyance, and he hesitates on the front step. "Not you, Nelson. Jesus, don't just stand there. Get in." Art is already putting on his jacket. "And don't put up with his attitude. If he gives you any trouble, shoot him."

Tim can't resist a parting shot. "Why'd you waste your whole morning being so careful with me if you're just gonna let Nelson shoot me this afternoon?"

"So I don't feel guilty at your funeral." Art pats Nelson on the shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow. Anything weird happens, call me."

"I wonder what he means by weird," Tim says as Nelson closes the door tight and locks it behind the Chief Deputy. "Do you think 'nothing fucking at all happening' counts?"

"I think he means if we see something suspicious. They might still be out looking for you and…"

"Fuck, Nelson, I know. I'm fucking kidding."

"Sorry."

"Shit." He lets out some air that might've been used for more futile swearing if he had the energy to spare but he decides to do something constructive instead, stands up, not without some difficulty, and limps to the kitchen.

"Where're you going?"

"To make something hot to drink since I can't have any of the cold stuff I want and I'm fucking sick of water."

"I'll do it. Go sit down."

Nelson moves awkwardly past him in the hallway. Tim follows anyway, watches curiously while Nelson peers into the cupboard directly above the coffee machine and the coffee grinder sitting in plain view on the counter.

"What're you looking for?" says Tim.

"Tea."

"Tea? I haven't got any fucking tea. I meant coffee."

"Should you be drinking coffee?"

"Oh, for fuck… Move."

"No, I'll do it."

It's too painful to watch. Tim humps back to the living room and drops onto the sofa then gets up again to collect his new service weapon, the one Art brought with him to try to cheer Tim up.

His old service weapon is gone. He figures he knows who has it. He wasn't emotionally attached to that particular gun but he had done some trigger modifications on it and it pisses him off to have to set up a new one. But everything pisses him off today, and the truth is he enjoys working on his firearms. He planned ahead for it, asked Rachel to order a third-party spring and connector, smooth trigger. It was the first thing he noticed when he walked in, the delivery box sitting by his computer waiting for him. He let it sit there until after Art left. Art looked uncomfortable enough handing over the new weapon, knowing what was on Tim's mind when he took possession of it. It's unlikely he would approve of Tim lightening the weight of the trigger pull. Art already feels shooting comes a little too easy for his office sniper.

Nelson walks in with coffee and sets a mug down on the coffee table beside the now disassembled weapon. "What're you doing?"

"Changing out the trigger."

"Why?"

"'Cause it's how I like it."

"What's wrong with it as it is?" Nelson sits down across from Tim and pulls his sidearm out of its holster, eyes it suspiciously like it might turn on him with its factory-installed trigger.

"Nothing's wrong with it. I just prefer it the way I prefer it."

Tim isn't offering much for a dialogue so Nelson starts talking about his cousin who did all kinds of modifications to his handgun and ended up shooting himself in the leg because of it.

"Sure it wasn't because he was stupid?"

Nelson doesn't know what to say in response. He changes the subject, starts asking Tim about his choice of backup and then he talks about his and his uncle's and his brother's without waiting for any input from Tim. Tim tunes him out and gets to work. He only starts paying attention to the monologue when he hears the name 'Cecilia Rose'.

Tim's head snaps up. "Did you meet her?"

Nelson looks embarrassed. "I'm the one who let her into your room. I thought she was pretty funny. I thought maybe she might cheer you up."

Tim nods, head back in his work. "Did you see her mother?"

"She was nice. I told her what happened to you and she told me about her mother and then she asked if it was okay if Cecilia Rose went in your room because she didn't want to disturb you and she was upset that I'd let her in the first time. I told her it was okay. That you didn't mind. I told her she could go in anytime and I mentioned it to everyone so it would be okay."

Tim chews on that but keeps his head down, concentrating on the job at hand. It's not easy work for healing fingers – the parts he's replacing are small – but he has patience for this. He goes at it meticulously then checks the mechanism when he's done, dry-firing to assure himself that the action is good. He goes to stand again but his knee has seized and yells at him for the sudden movement. He stumbles. Nelson offers to retrieve whatever it is he's getting up for but Tim waves him away and shuffles to the kitchen for a lockbox full of ammo and spare magazines, Nelson protesting and following.

"Did you get a good look at Cecilia's mother?" he says as he sits again.

"What do you mean 'a good look at her'? I talked to her a few times."

Tim doesn't respond, hoping Nelson will think about it and say more. He opens the lockbox and sorts out the right ammunition for the Glock. It's more effort than it should be loading the new magazine. He fumbles a few of the rounds and Nelson scrambles to pick them up off the floor.

Tim mumbles a begrudging thanks then decides to prompt Nelson. "Did you see the bruising?"

"Oh, yeah," says Nelson, but that's it. Another round escapes Tim's fingers and Nelson dives for it, hands it back. "You want me to do that?"

"No. I'm fine." He gets the last one in and slides the magazine into place, exploring the movement as he does, looking for anything that might slow him down in a firefight. Releases it and does it again, and then again. Satisfied he sets his new Glock on the table and pictures Cecilia's mother. She doesn't look like Rachel – lighter skin, one of those seventies' afros that the girls are happily letting grow, that are so cool now that forty years has gone by.

"She was pretty," says Nelson.

Tim doesn't like Nelson's choice of verb tense, corrects him. "She _is_ pretty." Then covers his interest. "Rachel says Cecilia looks like her sister."

"Yeah?" Nelson is happy for a conversation. "The one that was killed?"

"She only has one."

"Right."

* * *

 

Rachel calls at five and makes him think about supplies. She shows up after grocery shopping and relieves Nelson, stays to have dinner with him. She hovers more actively than Art, leaves the place smelling and looking better than it has in a while. He shuts and locks the door behind her only to have Raylan knock on it before he gets back to the sofa – they must've waved hi to each other at the curb. Raylan doesn't hover; he sits comfortably in the living room while Tim gets him a beer, stays long enough to drink two and force some kind of estimate of when Tim thinks he'll be allowed back to work, pronounces that the date given is bullshit and that he predicts Tim'll be back before two weeks is up. Tim wants to argue with him just because, but he can't. It's the truth. He's going to go crazy sitting around the house all day every day. He'll just show up for work one morning, forcing Art to change the date. Once Raylan is satisfied that Tim has no intention of staying home the recommended time, he leaves and leaves the empties on the coffee table.

Tim locks the door a second time behind Raylan. He's alone finally in his house.

It's weirdly quiet after the hospital, the constant noises day and night. He picks up the empty bottles and walks them to the kitchen. He's not that fussy about his place but he likes things where they're supposed to be. Orderly is efficient. He shuffles around the main floor getting reacquainted with the feel of home, turns on the TV and flips through the channels, turns on his laptop at the same time to check email. He wishes he hadn't. There are over two hundred waiting for him. He could've asked Rachel to bring him his computer but he doesn't trust the hospital wifi, too open. It takes a while to sort through them all. Some are notices from subscriptions and forums; others are friends saying: _where the fuck are you?_ He sits on the couch with his computer on his lap, ignores the TV and rips off a quick note to the few friends who are most likely to show up with guns loaded and ready for a rescue if he doesn't reply soon. All of them buddies from his time in the military.

"I'm not joking," he said to Rachel one day at the hospital. "If you see any guys hanging around my house when you go by to get my stuff, even if they don't look like one of the sketches, approach with caution." She laughed at the idea, but he was serious. One of his buddies from the sniper platoon, a guy he spent more time with than is socially healthy in the last three years of his career in the Rangers, he only lives one state north, not a long drive. There's nobody he's closer to in the entire world; nobody knows him better. The guy is crazy in a good way. His is the first email off _. I'm alive, stand down, have a beer._ He should've thought to text him earlier.

All this takes about an hour. The replies are necessarily short, fingers and keyboard not working well together. He cuts and pastes where he can. Then he's finished and the TV is annoying, not distracting. He's restless. He puts on his jacket, slides into his boots and ties the laces awkwardly, heads out to buy some whiskey. He was supposed to do it on the weekend, the one before the world spun out of orbit.

He stops by the cruiser parked across the street first to let the guys in it know where he's going. They shrug and follow him.

The closest liquor store is only a couple of blocks away but his legs feel weak with the effort of getting there. One boot lace is already undone and tripping him up. He looks down at it and thinks about having to crouch to retie it with his uncooperative fingers and then get back up again. He decides he can live with it undone. He picks out his bottle and pays for it and takes a breath and starts the walk home. It's exhausting. His loose boot keeps catching on the uneven sidewalk. The curbs seem higher than before, the twenty-sixer heavier. He thinks about asking his shadows for a ride but it's only one block. One block. His feet are dragging on the pavement when he gets back to the house. He sets the bottle still in the bag on the floor in the living room, kicks off the loose boot but leaves the other on, too tired to bother, and stretches out on the couch and falls asleep.

Two hours later, but still before midnight, the phone wakes him, shatters onto his consciousness and interrupts the nightmare as the metal pipe shatters his knee. It must be for the hundredth time. How many more? He yells at the phone, unnerved – "Fuck!" – and a reminder of the last few weeks works itself loose in his lungs with the force of the word and he answers the call in a fit of coughing. It takes the better part of an hour to convince his buddy not to come down the next day. He doesn't tell him what happened. He jokes. He's still shaking from being woken when he hangs up. The whiskey bag is within reach. He eyes it for a long and thick minute then he turns away, bends over to tackle the other boot. Upstairs and into bed for the remainder of the night.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Bear with me. It seems I'm in a novel-writing mood.)

**PART 2**

He thinks he might just possibly be going insane. Or maybe there was damage done that's not measurable by the technology available to modern medicine. One hit too many to the head; there's no telling what got scrambled. It's as if he's been put back together wrong, or set down a few inches to the left or right of where he was before all this, reawakened to an alternate universe that he doesn't quite fit into properly.

His first week back at work.

The job used to be simple even when it was difficult. Each staple, signature, bullet belonged where he put it and he was confident about putting it there. Now nothing sits right. He looks down at the report he's compiled and wonders if it should've been bundled together like this. What do the contents of page five have to do with the contents of page three? He flips back and forth between them and tries to make sense of the world of this one fugitive. There's a name at the top of page five and he scans page three hoping to find its match, eyes flitting top-right to bottom-left, middle, no pattern, no method. What was the name again? Back to page five. He's near to panicking.

"Tim, is that my report?" Art appears and snatches the papers away from his hands and skims through them page by page. "Perfect. Thank you."

He watches the papers as they're unceremoniously rolled up while Art talks about something, the offending staple lost in the center of a swirl of white, the text looking like a trompe l'oeil of typeset pathways leading over a miniature horizon and then back again, endlessly.

Art hits him on the head with it. "Are you even listening to me? Don't you have rehab at four? It's Wednesday."

"Shit. Right."

"We'll see you tomorrow then."

He's outside on the street when he checks his watch. 2:30 – Art's kicked him out early. He decides to walk to the hospital, kill time, loosen up the knee after a day sitting behind a desk. He'd like to bitch about being stuck on desk duty but he can't; he shouldn't even be in the office.  He's ridiculously grateful that Art didn't send him home again last Friday when he showed up at the courthouse, new weapon in his holster, walked right into the glass office and said, "I'm done with this convalescence shit."

"You're done?" Art took it in stride. "Well-done? Medium-rare?"

"Well-done, burnt."

Art walked over and without any warning shoved him backward and he stumbled and grimaced and favored his one knee and at the same time instinctively moved an arm up to his side holding himself defensively, holding his ribs.  He dropped the arm again quickly, tried to stand straight, but not quick enough.  Art's keen eyes saw everything.

"I think you still look a bit rare."

He tried to breathe normally. "That wasn't fair."

"Since when do you believe that anything about this job is fair?"

"Look, I've been sitting at home for three weeks, plus four in the hospital…"

"And the trail is getting cold."

Art spoke over the whining, each word with a noticeable pause after so there'd be no mistaking his meaning.

He remembered mumbling something that was not quite a denial, something like: "You know I can do just as much investigating at home as here."

"Really.  So tell me, what have you found out?"

It's hard arguing with Art when his sarcasm is cranked to eleven.  Tim pleaded.  "Can't you find me something to do that won't involve being…physical?"

Art allowed Tim a pass on the last question, not expecting an answer, addressed Tim's. "There are strict rules I have to follow concerning your disability leave."

"Rules or…guidelines?"

"Tim, this isn't Disney. This is the United States Marshals Service.  This isn't a pirate ship.  This is _my_ office.  The bad guys don't carry sabres.  They carry loaded guns."

"C'mon, Art. I'll do anything. Isn't there something in the _guidelines_ that'll let me…I dunno, do a job involving paper and a computer that won't piss off whoever…" He waved vaguely.

"By whoever, I suppose you mean not _only_ the people in HR but also your rehab team, your doctor, and the psychologist that you haven't been to see yet?" Art didn't expect an answer to this question either. His thoughts and eyes were already moving on, zeroed in on a full holster. "You been to the range with that thing? Maybe I gave you a fake just to keep you quiet."

"I've fired it a few times. It works."

"Of course you have. Silly me. Probably already fired it more than I have mine and I've had this one a few years." He gestured for Tim's service weapon and Tim hesitated. Art was instantly suspicious. "Hand it over."

Tim did, reluctantly.

The new gun was subjected to a thorough examination.

"You changed the trigger."

"Yep."

A knowing huff. "Why am I not surprised. Reduce the pull weight?"  No answer was all the answer Art needed.  "Shit.  Do you really...?" He handed Tim back his gun. "Well, I miss you. I hate having to look at Raylan – your empty desk isn't enough of a barrier. But don't make me chain you to it. You're on light duty, administrative only, until I say so. Understood?"

It was easier than he thought it would be to convince Art it was time, easy enough that he doubts it's a win.  He wonders if somehow Art manipulated the whole thing and actually had him out longer than necessary, or maybe let him back early to keep an eye on him. But that's just one doubt in a string of them, and not the most important.

He checks his watch again to be sure he didn't misread it – 2:30 – then heads toward the hospital for his appointment.

The route he chooses takes him past The Chase and he thinks a beer might be nice before he has to sit in outpatients waiting for his turn in the torture chamber, maybe some wings too so he can keep his favorite waitress coming to the table more often. He's not really hungry. Raylan dragged him out for lunch earlier to drill him about his recovery timeline, more impatient than he is. How's rehab going? Is the hand healing all right? When does he think he'll be fit on a weapon again? Does he have to requalify? He choked on a piece of his burger attempting to answer the rapid-fire questions. The look of horror on Raylan's face was worth the twinge in the ribs and the residual burn in the lungs. He's going to milk that one, start coughing next time Raylan asks him for a favor.

The Chase is dead between lunch and happy hour, two men in suits discussing business in a quiet corner booth and that's it. He hasn't been in since he got out of the hospital. He's not sure why. He feels nervous or something and he's up against it again, a feeling he doesn't recognize. It's new for him. It's like he has something to lose. Or maybe it's already lost and it's the empty space he's feeling. The doubts pile up.

He stops inside the door and looks for his waitress but she's not there. She appears in his mind anyway, soft brown hair tied up loosely, jeans, runners, the cute way she lifts one foot back behind the other when she leans over the bar to call the beer order to the bartender on busy days. She looks good in the logo t-shirt she has to wear. She'll smile and wave him over to her section if he lingers long enough at the door, long enough that she spots him, or she'll pout when she's missed him and discovers him at another server's table. He tips well, so the smile or the pout. It's a nice smile. She always works on Wednesdays – noon to closing - so he's at a loss to explain why she's not here. Maybe she moved on while he was in the hospital? He feels his world off of center again.

Someone calls from the bar, a cheerful male voice, a shadow and an outline in the gloom after the bright sunshine of the afternoon. "Grab a seat anywhere."

But he doesn't feel like a drink anymore. "I'll be back later," he says. "Just checking to see if someone was here."

It's two minutes past three when he gets to the hospital. The woman working the desk at the rehab clinic says, "Deputy Gutterson, your appointment's not for another hour."

"Any chance of getting in early?"

She doesn't even bother shaking her head. "Go have a coffee or something." She flicks him away with a hand.

He huffs but she doesn't look back up at him.

Hospital coffee. He dismisses the idea, wanders the halls looking for a gift shop, hoping for a magazine or maybe a book of Sudoku to pass the time. The next corner he turns drops him into the atrium at the main entrance. He's never been here before, always coming into the hospital through Emergency at the side. He stands and gawks at the activity. The atrium is attempting to be a mall – gift shops, a drug store and a food court. He's amused by it, figures the designers are trying to distract the hospital staff and customers, however briefly, from the real purpose of the building, but the hanging sign in the center that advertises directions to Emergency and Diagnostic Imaging ruin the effect. Still, it serves a purpose. It's a hub – a mass of humanity, a greater variety of people than he normally sees congregated together, more diverse even than the city jail. The hospital is a leveler – rich and poor, old and young, every color and creed kneeling at the medical altar, in supplication before the mercy of doctors and fate. Not even a church can compete. He watches the flow a moment longer, spots a magazine shop and cuts diagonally across the crowd. There's a coffee chain he recognizes nestled in the rows of fast food counters and he gets sidetracked, changes course with hopes for a decent brew. Fifteen minutes in the line-up and he finally has a hot coffee in hand, forgets about the magazine store and wanders over to Emergency with the hope of finding someone from EMS to talk to.

The folks that ride the ambulances all day are always good company, full of stories and especially friendly at Emergency when they're stuck waiting for their customers to be taken off their hands by the hospital staff. He'd be happy to help them with their boredom today. He remembers one incident told to him by a paramedic about a three-hundred pound woman and a three-story walkup. She was laughing while she told it but he's sure it wasn't funny at the time – her and her partner struggling with the load on the stretcher, the big woman demanding they stop on the landing between the first and second floor because they were jostling her too much and she couldn't light her cigarette. Funny in the retelling.

But it's not someone from the job that catches his eye – it's Cecilia Rose. She's a shiny bauble dropped on gray and dirty linoleum, stands out brightly in her pink, darting in and out of the automatic and oversized revolving doors made for hospital gurneys, forcing them to stop when she cuts it too close and trips the sensors. There are a few amused looks aimed her way, as many grumpy ones. Tim watches her a moment and then scans the faces in the waiting area looking for her mother. And there she is, hiding in a row of seats tucked into a corner, hand up covering her face which is bent down far enough to make the hand redundant. He recognizes the pose – domestic abuse shame. Before he can reconsider, he's walked over and is sitting down beside her.

"Don't know if you remember me. I'm Tim Gutterson."

She ignores him.

"Your daughter kicked my ass at a princess matching card game. I think she cheats. Good thing I wasn't playing for money."

The eye she turns his way is puffy, swollen from tears and a fist. At least that's how it looks to him.

"How badly are you hurt?"

"I'm fine, thanks. It was an accident."

"Yeah, right. How badly are you hurt?" He repeats the question hoping for more detail, glances over at Cecilia Rose to make sure she's still in sight. "You need some pain killers, or something more? X-rays? Anything broken?"

The woman shakes her head gently. "I just need some stitches, I think." She surprises him with a show of trust, lifts her hand and displays the gash on her left cheek.

"I know someone who can look after that…without the wait." He touches her arm. "C'mon, before your daughter trips some rich old man who's here for his gout and he sues her for damages."

"I'm fine waiting."

"C'mon."

"No, really, I'm fine."

"I got a friend who's a doctor. She'll fix you up without the wait."

"I'm fine," she says again, but the voice is less sure.

"You know they'll call the police and badger you into filing a complaint."

She surrenders, stands and heads to the entrance. He follows her, rounds up Cecilia Rose on the way.

* * *

 

"Deputy Marshal Gutterson, I should be reporting this. _You_ should be reporting this."

His friend, the doctor, is objecting to his request to help Cecilia's mother off the books. She's right, but he knows that on another moral plain he's right too. He also knows he can wear her down. He can be patient, but she has a waiting room full of patients and no time to argue with him.

"I love it when you call me Deputy Marshal. It's kinda sexy."

"It's meant to remind you of your responsibilities."

"Oh, well, that's not so sexy." He pulls out his marshal's badge. "I'm not a cop. See that? US Marshals Service." He runs his finger across the title.

"You love reminding people of that."

He smiles as best he can. "C'mon Em, help me out." He waves a hand behind him. "Help her out. She's scared and…"

"She's scared all right, and should report whoever did that to her and…"

"And so," he rolls his hand, "I'm trying to gain her trust. Maybe next time she'll feel safe enough to do the right thing and file that report. I can't force her to do it."

He raises his eyebrows, begs silently now. All this hushed arguing across the counter is a show of propriety by the doctor, and meaningless up against the antics of Cecilia Rose. The little girl is currently skipping happily back and forth in front of the large saltwater fish tank that runs the length of one wall of the waiting room and the doctor's eyes are following her, already smitten. She sighs, her face soft; it hardens again.

"God, why was I the unlucky intern on duty that night when you and Raylan brought that guy in bleeding?"

He's leaning forward on the counter, elbows around the bottle of hand sanitizer, fingers clasped like he's praying for something, and in a way he is.  "I told you not to date him."

"No, you didn't."

"Maybe I was just thinking it. Or maybe I thought you had more sense. You're a smart girl."

"You try saying no to Raylan Givens."

"It's not a problem for me – I say it at least once a day. Unfortunately though I work with him…for him, sort of. He's my senior, so it's my job to say yes…most of the time."

She moves her eyes back to his face and he holds her look. He knows what she's not saying, what she's never said. Then for some reason, today she decides to say it: "I should've said yes to you, not him."

It doesn't sting, but it's annoying. He straightens and backs up a step but leaves his hands on the counter. "Apparently Raylan can be charming when he wants something. So I've been told."

It clearly doesn't make her feel better to hear that.

He wants out of the conversation and fortunately Cecilia picks that moment to run up behind him and swat his leg. He looks down, pretends to be grumpy with her and says, "What do you want?"

"I like the blue one."

"Show me."

He waves her to the tank and she runs ahead of him, excited, might as well have him by the sleeve tugging him across the room the pull she has is that strong. He looks back at his friend, Emily, as he obeys the princess's summons. He knows he's won. Emily is watching cornrows and pink baubles. She frowns, then walks around the counter and past the paying clients and sets a hand gently on Cecilia's mother's shoulder.

"Come on in," she says, a solicitous arm moving to corral the wounded into her office.

* * *

 

He's taken the girls for dinner across the street from the medical offices. Cecilia eats half a grilled cheese sandwich and then falls asleep on the booth's bench, a long enough nap to get over being drowsy. Then she's awake and bored with her food. He pays the bill and follows them outside and flags down a cab. The car pulls up to the curb and he opens the back door.

"Where do you live?"

"Just off North Broadway, near Loudon." She says it for the driver.

"That's the same direction as the courthouse," says Tim. "We can share the ride." He's not going back to work but he doesn't feel right leaving her here. He wants to see her and Cecilia safely home.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"You afraid of another round if he sees you with me?"

"I am not afraid." She denies it, frantic, a harsh whisper for his ears only. "It's the only time this has ever happened."

Evelyn – he knows her name now – is trying to stuff her daughter into the back seat of the cab, holds the door open with her hip to brace it against a wind that has picked up this evening and is blowing through Lexington on its way to Oklahoma, promising a hard rain later. Cecilia Rose, as small as she is, doesn't seem to fit into the opening. She's occupying too much space with her random movements.

Tim leans in to help, takes the opportunity to whisper. "I know that's not true. Don't keep up the lie thinking I need to hear it. I get my fill of lies at work."

"What do you want?" says Evelyn.

He pulls out a card and a pen from his jacket pocket and scribbles his personal number on the back. "I want to know that you and Cecilia Rose are all right." He puts the card upside-down in her hand and taps the ink. "Call me."

"Call you?"

"If you need anything."

"What would I need from you?" Evelyn is flustered now and trying to take back control of her life using anger and a haughty tone.

"Nothing," he says and then for Cecilia Rose, "Take care of your mom. And no more cheating at cards."

Indignation from the back seat. "I don't cheat."

"Tell it to the judge, little miss."

He hardly has to work to close the car door. The wind does the job for him and the cab takes them down the street. He stands for a minute watching it until it's out of sight then gets his bearings and realizes that he's not far from Rachel's apartment and in need of a drink after all. And maybe some company. It starts to rain, hard, and that makes up his mind and he walks her direction, dialing her number as he goes. After he talks to her he remembers his missed rehab appointment and does what stretches he can for his fingers while he navigates the puddles already forming on the sidewalk.


	8. Chapter 8

Every time he comes to see Rachel in her new apartment he’s struck by how much more like her it is than the house she used to share with her now-ex. That house was over furnished, plush, a bit of a showpiece, and apparently it was Joe’s style. Her apartment is a studied contrast – neat, modern, leather and metal and glass, neutral. He wouldn’t describe it as comfortable or inviting, except that Rachel lives there and she’s become a good friend and so she makes it that way. It’s an arched eyebrow that greets him when she opens the door. He’s careful about taking off his wet boots, leaves them on the mat, sits on a stool by the trendy breakfast counter and slouches down on his elbows. He’s a bit damp.

“Coffee or beer?” she says, following him.

“Beer.”

“Mm-hm.”

She hangs his jacket in the bathroom over the tub to dry, tosses him a clean hand towel for his dripping hair, then opens the fridge and takes out two bottles. She slides them across the counter and watches him while he screws off the tops and slides one back. He takes a long drink.

“How’s rehab going?” She says it so casually.

He coughs, chokes a bit on the mouthful, sets the bottle down and looks at his hands. “Uh, good.”

“Tim, they called the office looking for you.”

“Oh.” He’s caught, guilty, then defensive. “I was going. I got distracted.”

“By what – a bar?”

“No, a girl.”

The accusing eyebrow slips down to neutral and Rachel leans over from the opposite side of the counter, co-conspirator. “Tell me or I’ll tell Art.”

“I was coming here to tell you. You don’t have to threaten me.”

She ducks down behind the counter and comes back up with a bag of nacho chips. Tim opens the bag and fishes out a couple and stuffs them in his mouth. He’s going in for seconds when she nudges him with a bowl. He obliges her, dumps the chips into it while she does the same with salsa. They settle on her couch with the bowls between them.

“So?”

“So, remember Cecilia Rose – Shawnee look-a-like?”

“From the hospital?”

Tim grimaces, recalling the inside of the building with a familiarity that bites. “Yeah.”

“She’s what – four?”

“Four next month, so I’ve been told. I took her mother to get stitched up today, ‘bout the time I was supposed to be in rehab. Remember Emily Duncan?”

It’s Rachel’s turn to grimace and Tim sees the memory flash across her face – a scene in the office, she and Tim dealing with the tears while Raylan looked on, bewildered. It flashes and is gone. He chuckles. She shakes her head, chuckles with him.

“You wanted to ask her out too, didn’t you? I remember you and Raylan going on about her.” She pauses for a drink of beer, then finishes her thoughts, “Good thing you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“I wasn’t invested, don’t worry. I went around the next day. Raylan got to her before I did.”

“Be happy. She’s a bit psycho.”

Tim grins, sharing the thought. “Yeah. She’s nice enough, though. She’s done me a few favors since – like taking Evelyn in today.”

“And why would she be doing you favors?”

“’Cause I let her cry on my shoulder.”

“Aw.”

They both grin and then don’t, and then Rachel returns the conversation to the point of Tim’s visit.

“Stitches? What happened?”

“Her boyfriend…husband? I’m not sure which. It’s not the first time.”

“Oh.”

“I took her to see Em so the locals wouldn’t get on her.”

“You might not be doing her a favor.”

“Maybe not.”

“You like her.” Rachel says it like she’s discovered something. “She doesn’t seem your type.”

“Why, because she’s black?”

She huffs. “No.” She smacks him with a backhand, knows that he’s teasing her. “No! Because she’s… I dunno. She seems so…nice.”

“Nice? You can tell nice by looking? Could you teach me that?”

“I talked to her a few times. Her mother was in the hospital just down the hall from you.”

He nods, files that admission under ‘potential source of information,’ then holds his hands up around his head, mocks a mass of hair. “Gotta love the ‘fro.”

They share another grin.

“She’s got beautiful hair,” says Rachel.

“Why don’t you grow yours out? Can yours do that?” The hands make another attempt to outline Evelyn’s hair.

“I’d like a promotion, thank you. I don’t think the federal government is terribly fashion aware.”

“It’d be worth it just to see the look on Art’s face. I’ll pay you to do it.”

“Real funny from your privileged white boy vantage.” Rachel goes to the kitchen for another beer for Tim, hands it to him with a question. “Just how much do you like her?”

“It’s not like that. Anyway, it’d be stupid to get involved with her.”

“Well then it’s a sure thing you’ll try. How is it that men are so moronic?”

He grants her a wry head tilt and she smiles like she’s seeing an old friend after a long time apart.

“I just want to make sure she’s all right.” He wonders if that’s true. “Cecilia Rose kept me amused in the hospital. Maybe I’d just like to do something back. She’s a handful, that little tyrant.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Could’ve used her in my fire squad.”

“Mmm.”

“Might be an asset in an interrogation room. The Marshals Service should consider hiring her.”

“Mm.”

“I mean, you definitely want her on your side.”

"Tim?"

"What?"

"You hungry?"

He thinks about the sandwich he just ate with the girls. "Are you?"

"Pizza from the corner?  I'm starving."

"Sure."

* * *

 

As long as it’s not crazy busy in the office, as long as nobody needs him, Art has given him the okay to sneak out after lunch and go play with whatever firearm he fancies. And that’s exactly how Art says it.

“Shoot whatever suits your fancy, Tim. Make yourself happy. I want to smell the gunpowder on you, even after your shower tomorrow. You do shower, right?”

“Occasionally.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He’s bored with his new Glock – it’s just like the old Glock – so today it’s his registered backup he’s chosen to shoot, a favorite handgun, his H&K compact.

The range is empty on a weekday, mid-afternoon – he goes to a private one rather than the local law enforcement range for just that reason. There’s always somebody shooting at the police range, doesn’t matter the time of day, and he doesn’t feel like being sociable. He’s not happy with his shooting and doesn’t want to talk about it until he figures out what’s wrong. He’s hoping it’s only a matter of strengthening his fingers, but he has doubts. He’s been around shooters and shooting enough to suspect there’s more to it. There’s a head game that trumps the hand strength and the body positioning, and repetitive action, the cure-all for most shooting woes, won’t help with that.

He buys a box of cheaper rounds than he’d carry on the job, rounds to throw away on a paper target. The kid working the counter does the bare minimum interacting then is back to his cell phone ignoring Tim even before he completes the credit card transaction. Tim rips off his receipt and pockets it, pushes the machine a half-assed half-inch back to the kid, then he walks to the farthest booth and loads a magazine and two spares and thinks about the mechanics of shooting. He runs through lessons from his military days, lessons from personal experience, repeating good technique in a mental picture show over and over in his head. Then he thinks about the weapon he’s loading, how it behaves in his hands.

If it were after work or on the weekend someone would be in his space chatting to him while he preps, talking about handgun preferences, pros and cons of trigger safeties. Everyone’s an expert; everyone’s opinionated. He has his own ideas but he tends to keep them to himself. There are people who don’t like the fact that he prefers a German-made handgun. He can’t deny the attraction of his service weapon, his Glock, with its pull-and-shoot capabilities, but damn, H&K makes a fine firearm, external safety switch and decocking feature notwithstanding. He’ll keep it, thank you. It’s become a joke between him and Raylan. “Don’t want you going around half-cocked,” Raylan will say, and Tim will go along with it and reply, “Oh, I beg to differ. You _do_ want me going around half-cocked.” Raylan’s even used the line when they’re in a situation, guns out, a heads-up to be ready to fire. It’s starting to get old, especially since Raylan carries his American-made 1911 – Tim has one just like it – as backup with its external safety. Same difference.

Decocking. Gun humor. He’s sure he’s heard it all. Tara’s face interrupts, yelling at him – _“You've got nothing but work and your stupid guns.”_ Maybe she’s right. But he likes his guns. What does she have? Trendy clothes, and her stupid obsession with Luke Bryan. 

When he’s done loading he slides his hearing protection around his neck and sets up at the booth. He works to clear his head, sets aside Luke Bryan and Tara and Raylan and anything else that doesn't involve getting these bullets to their destination. He shoots better with a clear head. He thumbs off the safety and lines up and fires five shots, taking time in between to do a quick mental checklist, head to toe, of his body positioning.

The grouping isn’t satisfying, not to him, not even close. He sets up again and aims for the head this time and fires off another five in quick succession, then another five fast at the center of mass again. He’s emptied the magazine. It’s all shit. He can tell without looking.

He sets his gun down on the counter while he waits for the target to come to him, takes a deep breath and flexes his hand, but he's pretty certain it's nothing physical. He can't clear his head. That's what it is. You don't shoot well if you're not focused. There's a room, a chair, a fist, a face, and mixed in with that is pain and humiliation and failing courage, all intruding in this moment, in every moment since. He feels vulnerable and it makes him angry and the anger roils up, fills his thoughts and messes with his head.  He can't let it go, so he decides today, looking at the mess he's made of the target, to let it take over. The empty magazine goes onto the counter and a full one slides in. He switches the target and sends it back downrange, aims and lets his anger do the shooting, opens the floodgates and lets it flow unchecked into his arm and on down to his trigger finger. Since he can't clear his head, maybe he'll focus on one thing.  Anger.  He growls while he fires, unloads all fifteen rounds, splitting them between the head and the torso.

The target makes its way toward him and he releases a huff of disgust when it’s close enough to make out for sure where the rounds hit. Two better groupings than he’s shot since...   “Shit.”

“Well, ain’t that a pretty sight.” The voice comes from behind him, is loud enough to cut through the earmuffs.   It’s the voice of satisfaction.  “Welcome back, Tim.”  

It’s Raylan. It’s a predatory smile from Raylan that greets him when he turns.

“I need you for a ride-along,” he says, still grinning as he moves his eyes from the target to Tim. “Art told me to take Nelson, but I think you’re ready.”

Tim’s only heard about every second word of the last part but it’s enough to get the message. He pulls the earmuffs down around his neck and chews on a lip, looks at the target with the neat two-inch hole chewed through the middle, another through the head, looks back at Raylan then down at his boots, then at the gun in his hand.

“Sure,” he says flatly. What the fuck. He's tired of his desk. He pulls a full magazine of work rounds from his pocket, drops the empty one and slides the new one into place.

* * *

 

"I know one of the guys on the investigation," says Raylan.

"The investigation?"

"You know, yours. All that." 

They're sitting in the Town Car on a back road outside of Wilmore. Raylan is peering out the windshield watching the house across from them while he talks. 

"He called me this morning and asked about you, wanted to see how you were doing."

"Did he tell you anything?"

"No, but he wants to. I don't think it would take much to get him talking."

Tim is watching the house too, but he's not sure what he's looking for. He's not sure what Raylan's getting at either. It doesn't help that the sun is setting and the light is glaring, the scene backlit and shadowed. "What're we doing here?"

"You interested?" says Raylan. 

"Yeah, I'm interested."

"I'll see what I can do."  Then he's back to the situation at hand.  "It's a warrant that came across my desk. I knew the guy."  Raylan waves at the house.

"You knew him?  How?"

"Went to high school together."

"No shit."

"No shit."

"What's he done?"

"Oh, you know, assault, theft, parole violation."

"Sounds a bit dull for you."

"I was curious to see him again." He opens the car door. "Shall we knock?"

"You know he's here?"

"I have a hunch. It's his mother's place. It's my first stop."

"Assault, you said?"

"With a weapon. He has a habit of shooting people. Never manages to kill them though." Raylan twists and leans over the seat and pulls out two vests from the back, hands one to Tim. "Hate to see you back in the hospital again."

Tim eyes the yard while he slips into the vest. There's an old washing machine listing in the dirt, a broken fence given up and lying defeated in the dust, two cars of indeterminate color except for the predominant rust, an old camper on blocks in the back corner with a faded dollar-store 'For Sale' sign taped in the window. Beyond that is a clothesline, empty and sagging.

His eyes keep drifting back to the camper.  "What d'you say I have a look at that camper while you knock?"

"You in the market?"

"Maybe. I'd like to see if it's inhabitable first."

"Inhabited, you mean."

"That too, and it'll give me a good view of the back."

"Alright. Watch out for broken glass."

Tim snorts, and they get out of the car and stand for a moment listening, then they start across the road, Raylan left toward the house, Tim right toward the backyard. They've not gone two steps when the camper door slams open and a man is standing in the opening with a rifle aimed their way. Raylan and Tim draw their weapons, run in opposite directions as one then two rifle shots crack between them and hit the broken asphalt and ricochet. The figure retreats behind the camper in a cloud of dust and cursing.

"Roscoe, don't you go shooting my car."

Raylan is enjoying the action – Tim can hear it in his tone. He's behind one of the rusted heaps, nods when he sees Tim crouched behind a stack of chopped wood. There's a small limestone cliff behind the property. Their fugitive can't run anywhere but left toward the house or right toward Tim and his woodpile.

"Roscoe, I have a warrant for your arrest. Don't make me shoot you at your mother's house."

A voice calls out from behind the trailer. "Who is that?"

"It's Raylan – Raylan Givens."

"Raylan Givens?"

"Remember me?"

"Shit, yeah. You stole my girl in high school."

"That's what you remember?"

"I hated you."

"That was like…twenty-five years ago. I don't even remember which girl."

"Well, I do. What're you doing here and who's that fellow with you?"

"That's my partner, Deputy Gutterson – and I'd rather you not shoot him either. I have a warrant for your arrest. Come on out and let's do this nicely. Is your mama home?"

There's a pause while Roscoe digests everything that Raylan has said and not said. Tim crouches down and watches Roscoe's feet beneath the camper, watches him move to the far left corner. Tim stands and moves quietly around the woodpile and covers the distance to the front of the camper, careful to keep his feet blocked from Roscoe's view by the wood holding up one end. He turns to Raylan and signals that he's going around to the right. Raylan nods and runs closer himself, to the corner of the house, ready to move to the left and cut off Roscoe's escape.

"Raylan Givens?"  Roscoe doesn't sound convinced.

"We've established that."

"You're a cop?"

"No, Roscoe, I'm a Federal US Marshal. Where have you been? I thought everyone from Harlan knew that."

"I've been busy."

"Yes, you have. Come on out now before you get hurt. I may not shoot you, being a bit sentimental because of our history, but my partner's not so emotionally encumbered. He _is_ likely to shoot you."

"Did you move?"

"What?"

"You sound closer."

Tim decides it's time to go. He takes four cautious and quiet steps. The next one will put him at the back of the camper. He's leaning forward to see around the corner so misses seeing the small hole in the ground covered in a tuft of long grass.  But his right foot doesn't miss it - it drops in at an angle, the knee twists with it and Tim goes down in pain. Roscoe turns at the commotion, jittery, raises his rifle to defend himself and fires wildly.  Tim has rolled instinctively and the round from the rifle hits dirt, gives Tim time to get his gun hand up and he fires twice, misses twice. Both bullets hit the camper and carom loudly off the metal and into the surrounding bush. Roscoe turns and runs, straight past Raylan who's come around the other side of the camper, straight into the clothesline, clotheslines himself, feet up over his head, down hard on his back and his rifle goes off. As if the scene weren't slapstick enough the stray round goes through the passenger window of Raylan's Town Car.

"Goddammit!"


	9. Chapter 9

He’s managed to pull himself to standing, leaning now against the camper, rubs his right thigh above the offended knee. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He talks to it softly. Fuck is his word for sorry, hoping the pain will stop if he admits his stupidity and begs forgiveness. But the pain is excruciating and his knee isn’t accepting the offered apology. He wonders how far back this has set him.  He wonders too how much trouble he's in. He knows intimately the angles that define Art’s angry face, imagines how steep they'll get when he hears about this. And he will hear about this. Usually he and Raylan could talk the Chief around to seeing the humor in it but for the blown-out car window. Even then they might be able to conjure a laugh from him except that one of his deputies was shot at – not so funny – and forced to return fire – really not funny – and that deputy was under orders not to wield anything more dangerous than a pen for six weeks minimum. Art won't be laughing about this until he's been retired a few years, maybe never. The only shiny bit in this whole mess is that Tim missed his shots so there'll be no inquiry to deal with. That'll please Art as much as it displeases Tim. He shouldn't have missed.

Roscoe is in handcuffs sitting in the dirt. Raylan clears the rifle, calls his old high school acquaintance a string of names that all mean ‘stupid’ – he’s the king of synonyms today – then he saunters over and stands in front of Tim.

“You okay?”

Tim looks up. “Fuck off.” That’s not an apology.

“What is it, your knee?”

He nods.

“Can you walk on it?”

“Got any pain killers?”

“I might in the car.”

“Got any whiskey to wash them down with?”

Raylan taps the front of his jacket, grins.  Tim puts out a hand and Raylan slips out his flask and they each have a mouthful.

“I think I can get to the car now.”

Barely. He’s hobbled. Raylan has to support him. He’s got one arm around Tim’s waist, the other holding the rifle and prodding Roscoe with it, a five-legged race to the car.

Tim is sweating when he gets there, opens the door and brushes the broken glass off his seat and sits gingerly, pulls his leg in after him. Raylan folds his catch in the back along with a proper number of threats to keep him in line, opens the driver’s side door and brushes more glass out onto the road. He stops and stoops in farther and picks something out of the debris. He holds it up for Tim to see. It’s what’s left of the bullet that injured his Town Car. Tim gives it a cursory glance then he turns his head and stares out of the windshield at a bleak horizon. Raylan throws the crumpled bullet into the backseat, hits Roscoe on the forehead.

“I told you not to shoot my car, Roscoe. Look at this mess. Shit. Now I’m mad.”

“It was an accident.”

“That only works as an excuse in grade school. This is the real world and you were carrying illegally. ‘It was an accident’ doesn’t fucking cut it.”

Raylan’s eyes, the whole time he’s berating Roscoe, are fixed on Tim. Tim can feel it. When the tirade ends Tim says, “I’m fine,” before Raylan can ask again. “Better drop me off at home after we deal with him.” He pauses, sucks in a lot of air and then blows it out again. “Art.” It’s all the explanation needed.

Raylan nods. “You be okay for tomorrow? Might be best if he doesn’t find out you messed up your knee.” They’re both anticipating trouble from the Chief Deputy.

“I’ll ice it, take something for the swelling.” He shakes his head, knows he’ll still be limping tomorrow. “Might wanna pray to the saint of disobedient boys.”

“Hey, I’m sorry. I’ll deal with Art and…”

The sympathy from Raylan surprises Tim, draws out something other than the usual snark. He interrupts the apology, holds up a hand. “Don’t. It wasn’t like you forced me at gun point.” He’s angry, at himself. Where’s the patience, hard learned in the military, that he’s so proud of? Fucking amateur. “Shit, there’s no way I’m escaping his wrath, short of shooting myself before he gets to me. Thanks though.”

Raylan tries to distract Tim on the way to lock-up, even brings up the topic of guns himself, but Tim is resistant to cheering up and Raylan ends up talking instead to Roscoe.  Tim is left to sit in the car at the local Sherriff's office while Raylan handles the administrative necessities of a captured fugitive. He picks stray pieces of shot-out window from the upholstery and flicks them out into the parking lot. 

“If I didn’t know you better I’d swear you were pouting,” says Raylan when he gets back.

“Did I ever tell you you’re my hero, Raylan?” Tim flashes a campaign trail smile and Raylan humphs in response and starts the car and pulls away from the curb.

"Roscoe told me to say it was a pleasure meeting you."

"I should've aimed better."

"Did you really try to shoot him?"

"He was shooting at me first."

"He's an idiot."

"He's an idiot with a gun.  There's nothing more dangerous."

"Seriously.  You'd have shot him?"

"If I hadn't of missed."

Raylan looks over.  "What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with you?"

“Do you need a nap?”

Tim doesn’t respond. He’s busy pouting.

Raylan opens his door to get out and help when they get to Tim's house, but Tim waves him off and limps up the walkway by himself, each step a knife to the kneecap. He hides the pain, stubborn to accept his penance. He doesn’t have any ice made so he pulls out a bag of frozen peas and then collects up his emergency medical supplies, a glass of whiskey and a handful of ibuprofen, drops onto the sofa and feels his stupidity fully, without any pity filters or justifications to soften it. It’s enormous. He doesn’t bother forming up a parade of excuses for Art. He knows what he’s going to say – “Boss, I’m a fucking idiot.” Art will agree with him.

* * *

 

The cigarette burns are painful but trite, almost silly until they threaten his eye with a lit butt. It should scare him into answering their question but he can see they won’t do it. They haven’t got the stomach for it. He can smell their reluctance even through a nose clotted and heavy with blood. They chicken out, talk about shooting him in the kneecap. He’s pretty sure they’ve got the stomach for that. They decide after a quick discussion that a gunshot might draw attention. He feels their options narrowing down, feels them in a finger that throbs more than the rest, that won’t obey his commands to move. But they’ve almost run out of fingers. How many more punches to the head before he’s unconscious again? It’s not pleasant to think about but it doesn’t scare him like the metal pipe does. The pipe is on the floor and it’s rolling toward him – one of them has kicked it his way – it rolls within a couple of inches of his left foot and then stops and starts to roll backward. It looks alive. It seems more violent than a gun, less civilized, and isn’t that a statement of his current circumstance, and his past life, that he now categorizes violence by degrees.

The pipe is still moving, its weight giving it momentum. It hits another high spot on the floor and starts to roll back toward him again. He tries to turn his eyes away but he can’t not follow its path. It’s mesmerizing, hijacking his imagination. He can feel his breathing, shallow and raw. The pipe is promising something worse than no tomorrow. He wrestles for control, looks desperately to the door and imagines his buddies blowing the hinges, lined up on the other side in full gear, cammies and M4s and attitude, ready to come through the opening and put a bullet into anything on this side that’s not him. He’s disturbed but not surprised that he looks to them for rescue and not the people he works with now, not Rachel, not Raylan. He’s told himself time and time again that he trusts his fellow marshals as much as he trusted his fellow Rangers, but in this moment when he’s stripped down to a truth barer and lonelier and more crushing than the cold floor of the deepest and darkest part of the ocean he has to confess that that’s not right. He’ll never trust them the same way. He looks at the door again and knows they’re not coming for him, not any of them. Not his Ranger buddies either. How could they know? He left.

“Where is he?” One of his captors picks up the pipe.

He closes his eyes.

When he opens them again he’s still lying on his sofa fully dressed, knee throbbing. It’s swollen. He can feel the skin tight against his pant leg. The pain killers have worn off. His tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth reminding him that he drank a lot of that bottle of whiskey last night, and now it’s morning. It was a stupid thing to do, almost as stupid as feeling sorry for himself. There’s a knock at the door. It must be what woke him. He hears a key fiddling in the lock and the door swings open and Art walks in.

It’s a staredown. Tim looks away first. He can’t win this one. His body language says it all – I’m a fucking idiot.

“Raylan told me what happened. You alright?”

He sits up fully and tries to straighten his leg. It won’t go, stiff and angry back at him. “No.”

Art refrains from saying ‘I told you so’ but if it were possible to speak with elbows Art’s are saying it loud and clear. They carve an impressively articulate angle when he plants his hands on his hips. “Do you need to see someone?”

“I guess.”

“Can you walk on it?”

“We’ll see.”

“You say it like that and I take it as a ‘no.’ Did they send you home with crutches?”

“No.”

“Should’ve sent you home with crutches for your brain. Raylan should’ve been born with them. Either that or permanent training wheels. C’mon, Nelson’s out front with a vehicle. I’m taking you to the hospital. You shouldn’t mess around with injuries like this. I know from experience.” Art taps his bum knee. “But first, maybe some coffee for that hangover.”

He’s told to stay off it for a week. They wrap his knee to control the swelling, rap him on the knuckles, send him home with crutches this time, and little white anti-inflammatory pain killers. Art tells him he’ll pick him up for work the next morning around nine because he doesn’t trust him to behave, to stay home and rest. He says he might be a few minutes late if he decides he has to stop and buy a chain and lock on the way. Tim assures him that’s not necessary.

After dragging a promise from him to stay no less than a hundred yards from Raylan at all times, except in the office, Art leaves him to himself for the remainder of the day. Tim takes his frustration out on a game of Grand Theft Auto, kills everything in sight on the screen, video characters exploding in a spray of blood and bullets. He imagines each with a face that he remembers seeing from a chair in a room, a room that’s damp, cold, poorly lit.

* * *

 

The phone doesn’t wake him when it rings – he’s too restless for sleep after a day sitting. It’s difficult to get comfortable waiting for pain killers to kick in. He swears at his cell, and at himself because he’s left it on the dresser across the room and now he has to get up and get there and that’s no small thing. He slides carefully to the side of the bed and stands on one leg, gets his balance and hops over, picks up the phone and looks at the number. There’s no caller ID to help him decide whether to answer or not. He answers. It’s Evelyn.

It takes some patience to figure out what she needs. She’s upset. He can hear Cecilia Rose crying, Evelyn trying to soothe her, crying herself. She speaks to Tim in whispers but he can’t tell if her voice is low to keep the words away from her daughter or someone else. Maybe it’s shame. She’s begging help from a stranger.

When he finally understands that she needs a place to get away to, he offers to come get her, hangs up with a street corner address. He then wonders if he can drive. He dresses quickly, maneuvers the stairs on crutches, hall, keys, locks the door. He climbs stiffly into his truck, drags the crutches after him and over the seat into the back. He turns the key in the ignition. Just a light touch on the gas to start the engine and the knife is back attacking his knee, the metal pipe attacking his thoughts. He punches the dash once in frustration then puts the truck in gear and does what he has to do.

He drives too fast thinking about the girls out on the street at this hour. If he gets pulled over for speeding Art’ll hear about it – he’s like the director of the NSA sitting in his office with reports coming across his desk every second of every day. This is a good excuse though; this one would get him a bye from Art. There’s little traffic at this hour and he gets to the rendezvous quickly. Evelyn appears to be back in control of herself but is anxious to be out from under the streetlights and in Tim’s truck. He’s saved having to get out and try to be helpful. Cecilia has stopped crying. She needs no prompting to climb into the seat and up beside him.

“Hey, little miss. A bit past your bedtime.”

“Mama said it was okay.”

“Well if Mama says it’s okay then it’s okay. Did you bring your cards?”

She digs into her pink bag while Evelyn does up the seatbelts, holds up the pack for him to see. Tim is already pulling the truck back onto the road, grateful that the painkillers are finally kicking in and it’s a dull throb now in his knee as he pushes on the accelerator and heads home.

Evelyn pauses in the driveway and watches appalled as he pulls out the crutches, locks the truck and half limps, half hops up the walkway.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “If I’d known…”

He cuts her off. “Long story. I guess we both got a long story to tell. But hey, we won’t have any of those awkward silences to deal with.”

“I’m sorry I bothered you.  I…”

“I don’t wanna hear another apology. I’ve been getting them all month. You and Cecilia Rose are not a bother.”

“Can we play a game?” Cecilia Rose has no compunction about inconveniencing anyone. She runs ahead to the door and waits for the adults. “Can we play?” She’s yawning as she asks.

“It’s late, Ceci.”

“Just one?”

“No.”

“Just one?”

“Tomorrow,” says Tim, “I’m too tired. It wouldn’t be a fair game. You’d win too easily.” He opens the door and waves her in. The reality of a child in his house hits him as she hops across the threshold and starts exploring, moving like a bird from corner to corner, touching everything. He hurries ahead of her and does a panicked check to ensure he’s locked up his firearms. It’s his habit to be cautious but he’s not been himself, not since, still off-center, doubts still shadowing everything he does.

He offers the girls his bedroom but Evelyn won’t hear of it, refuses outright, so he gathers up sheets and blankets and pillows for the pull-out couch that’s in the back room where he keeps a computer and a desk. He tries to help but only gets in the way and ends up watching while she makes up the bed.

“It’ll just be tonight,” she says, stuffing a pillow into its case. “I’ll find something tomorrow.”

“It’s okay. Stay as long as you need to.”

“Just tonight.”

She unpacks Cecilia’s bag, finds pajamas and gets her ready for bed. Tim retreats to the front room with a cold beer, sits and listens to Evelyn reasoning with her little girl. Eventually it’s quiet and Evelyn appears in the hall.

“Thank you.”

He nods and smiles and gets nothing back. “You want a beer?”

She stands frozen, undecided. She looks like a photograph of a woman. He wants to see her relax. He wants to discover something about her that nobody else knows. He wants to offer her something that no one else can. For now it’s a pull-out couch and a safe hiding place, and he’s satisfied with that.

“You look like you need a beer,” he says finally, can’t handle the suspense so he moves to stand and that gets her unstuck, her arms up to stop him.

“No. I mean yes, I’d love a beer. But I’ll get it. You stay sitting. I can find the fridge.” She speaks in a rush, unsettled, quietly for the child who’s hopefully sleeping. A step or two toward the kitchen then she turns, arms gripped tightly across her chest like she’s barring herself in. “Can I get you anything?”

“Another beer would be great.” He tries another smile and she smiles in return. He revels in that one small victory while she's gone to the kitchen, and then she's back. She gets close enough to hand him his beer then sits opposite him in a chair and avoids looking at him and drinks hers straight from the bottle.

 


	10. Chapter 10

He half expects to find them gone when he gets up the next morning. He's awake early, five-thirty.  It seems ridiculous to think they left in the dark, yet he imagines they've sneaked out sometime in the night and that he'll find his house empty but for him. He lies in bed listening. A car rolls by on the street; a dog barks. There's nothing he can do about it. He has no hold on them. He then reminds himself that he would've woken if the door opened in the night. He sleeps lightly since his time with the Rangers, unless he's drugged or beyond tired. Why's he even worrying about it? There's nothing he can do.

He rolls onto his back and throws off the covers and flexes his leg, obediently running through the stretches he was told to do for his knee, then he hops to the shower. Just that is exhausting. He needs to get back in shape. He feels cheated, robbed of something valuable and now he's going to have to work hard to get it back.

After the shower he flops onto the bed to get dressed rather than try to balance on one leg. He's not going to put any weight on that knee for the week. Nothing's going to make him mess this up again. It's important to him to prove Art wrong. The look on his boss's face when he dropped him off yesterday after the visit to the clinic suggested that he would be surprised if Tim stuck to the program the doctor recommended for him. So Tim is going to stick to the program. He hates someone telling him he can't do something.

The door to the back room is closed tight – it's the first thing he notices when he comes downstairs. There are little pink sparkly runners in his front hall. The girls are still here. He's surprised, and the feeling of pleasure that comes with it is even more of a surprise. Maybe he's not such an asshole. _Fuck you, Tara._

He makes coffee quietly, hobbles out the back into the yard to use an outdoor socket to grind the beans. Just as the last of the water is dripping into the pot Evelyn appears in the doorway to the kitchen.

"We'll be gone today," she says.

He says, "Good morning."

She looks embarrassed.

"I can't say it any plainer – you can stay as long as you need to. Were you planning on going back to him today? I can guarantee he hasn't learned a damn thing."

"No, I'm not going back."

"Good. Coffee?"

"Please."

He looks at her, tilts his head. "I can't tell if that's bed-head or…" He does his afro charade again with his hands. He's trying to make her laugh.

She reaches up and touches her hair self-consciously.

"I'm kidding."

A weak smile is all he gets. "Permanent bed-head," she says.

"You're lucky I've had a shower. You couldn't begin to compete with mine."

Evelyn ducks her head and smiles more honestly and he turns around to pour the coffee, smiling himself. She hurries to take the mugs from him and carries them to the table, freeing up his hands for crutches. She gets the cream, asks if he wants sugar and then sits facing him.

"I gotta go to work today. Make yourself at home."

"Okay," she says, but her head is disagreeing – it's saying no, shaking gently. "I don't know what I'm going to do."

"You have any family nearby?"

"I'm from South Carolina. He convinced me to move here with him last year. My mother moved up too to be closer..."

"How's she doing?"

She stirs her coffee in endless circles, eventually sets the spoon to rest against the side of the mug, looks out the kitchen window. Her hands come up to cover her face and she's crying.

He doesn't get an answer. He doesn't know what to do so he drinks his coffee.

* * *

 

“So.”

“So what?”

Rachel keeps her eyes on the road but reaches over and swats him hard. “So, how long is she going to be staying with you and when exactly did she move in and what part of ‘getting involved would be stupid’ did you _not_ mean?”

“I meant all of it but what was I gonna do? She called just after midnight, crying.”

“Last night?”

“Yep.”

“I’m glad you took her in, Tim. It looks good on you.”

“Thank you.”

“Ceci really does remind me of Shawnee. It’s weird. Brings back memories.”

“Does it bother you?”

“No. It’s a safe distance now. Shawnee was precocious like that. She had everyone wrapped around her little finger. I hated her for it when we were growing up. I hate myself now for hating her then.”

The smile comes involuntarily. He knows she can’t see it with her attention on her driving. “Hey, could you do something for me?”

“Depends.”

“Could you drop by the hospital and check on her mother? I figure better you than me. I’d probably get thrown out. You’re cleverly disguised.”

“Black female.”

“Yep.”

She laughs. “Sure.”

“Thanks.”

“So how long are they staying?”

“I’ll let you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re gone when I get home later.”

They’re pulling into the courthouse parking lot when it dawns on him that Rachel picked him up and not Art. He looks over for the Chief’s car. It’s already there.

“I was expecting Art this morning.”

“He had a meeting.”

“Before eight?”

Rachel’s working at not looking at him, bustles ahead of him to the Marshals’ entrance and opens the door for him.

“Who’s he meeting with?”

She pauses, still won’t meet his eyes. “Not sure.”

He stops and leans heavily on the crutches, slouches down so he's level with her face, watches her. “DC, I'll bet.”

Her aggravation is showing. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

“You don’t have to. Not talking is saying it all.”

“Damn it, Tim. You’re not supposed to know.”

“Whatever. I don’t know nothing.”

“You remember that.”

“It’s the only thing I have to forget, so I can't. I know nothing else.”

* * *

 

He and Rachel are early. Art’s already in. So is Nelson, and Hardy, the new guy. Even the administrator is at her desk. Tim stops inside the door and checks his watch. It’s unusual for the bullpen to be this busy at this hour. Criminals don’t tend to be early birds. As he’s pondering the strangeness of the scene, Hardy walks out of Art’s office, walks past Tim and says, “Chief wants to see you.”

“I’m barely out of bed. What could I have possibly done?”

Hardy shrugs. “You tell me.”

Raylan doesn’t like Hardy. Tim decides at that moment that he doesn’t either. The man has no sense of humor. It’s hard to work this closely with someone if they can’t laugh at themselves. Even Nelson is good for a healthy dose of self-deprecation. Raylan says Hardy is a robot, no emotion, no nothing worth communicating with. Maybe he’s right. A stab of distrust surprises Tim, jabs him in the temple while he watches Hardy, imagining him making a phone call to a thug in New Mexico. He flicks the thought away but not fast enough and it imprints and he hates himself for it. It’s ridiculous. Hardy started the day before Tim was assigned Sandoval. He’s straight out of Glynco. There’s no way he’s connected. That kind of finger pointing is self-defeating, and proving it wrong is now the only way to clear the suspicion from his head. He swears under his breath, does his three-legged walk into Art’s office while juggling guilt and anger.

“Hey, boss. What’s up?”

“I need to yell at you. I felt too sorry for you yesterday to do the job properly. Get in and close the door. And sit down so I don’t start getting soft again.”

Art begins when Tim is comfortably seated. “You should not have gone out with Raylan without my say-so.”

“It was stupid.”

With that admission Art has nothing to throw himself against. He continues feebly anyway, feeling he must. “And it's a pain in my backside. Now I have to make up a fraudulent report saying I gave you permission to return to active duty without a medical okay, then I have to date it the day before yesterday and sign it and then I have to explain my reasons – and I haven’t got any yet – to HR.”

“Sorry.”

“Shit, don’t lie to me. You’re not sorry. Raylan wasn’t sorry either.” He rubs his head and shuffles some papers and then looks past Tim to the bullpen. “I guess I’ll say we were short and… I mean, you’re out of commission and Hardy is still training.”

Art’s wrong; Tim is sorry but it’s not worth trying to convince anyone. There’s a heavy silence that follows. He’s expecting more. “Is that it?”

“Yeah. Go on.”

There’s more. Tim’s sure there’s more. Art seems heavier than usual. He makes an educated guess at what’s weighing Art down. “I know you talked to the investigators this morning. They got nothing, right?”

And that’s it. Art slumps back in his chair. “They were in yesterday afternoon and this morning asking the same damn questions. They’re whacking around in the trees with a nine iron, outside the ruff, looking for any ball to play.”

“Didn’t know you were a golfer.”

“I’m not. That’s why that analogy came to mind. My ball always ends up well off the fairway. I’ve started using bright pink ones just so I can find them. My son-in-law drags me out when he’s in town. I hate golf.”

Tim gets to his feet, hobbles to the door, then stops and turns awkwardly. “Chief?”

“What?”

“What happened to Sandoval?”

Art is quick to say, “Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Thought maybe you missed him.”

“Oh yeah, sure. He’s a peach.”

“Like I told you, he was transferred. Raylan took over his file, passed him off before we even found you. He’s not our problem anymore.”

Again a silence, again it’s heavy. He nods and turns and heads back to his desk, thinking. The fact that Raylan was put in charge of the sign-over is good news for him. He doubts he could get anything out of Rachel, but all it’s going to cost him to get information from Raylan is a beer…or four.

Raylan is just coming in as Tim is sitting down. He swivels to face him.

“Buy you a drink later?”

“I never turn down a free beer.” Raylan lifts his chin in Art’s direction. “He still mad?”

“Not really.”

Raylan takes off his hat and looks around, screws up his face. “I thought I was early this morning. What the hell?”

* * *

 

Raylan told him what he wanted to know. He knew he would.

He replays the conversation in the cab ride home. He waved off the offer of a drive from Raylan, leaving him and Rachel to argue over whether he should be behind the wheel of a car. They’d all had too many, especially for a weeknight. Even Rachel was keeping pace and speaking with uncharacteristic liberty about the job, her emotions pouring out easily like the beer. Tim figures they all needed a night like that after the last couple months, them more than him.

He was hoping to talk to Raylan alone, was disappointed when Raylan asked Rachel to join them and she accepted. He expected her to call it quits early like she usually does but she held in there. After the third beer he gave up waiting, put his question out there. She surprised him, hardly put up a fight when Raylan told him everything he knew about Sandoval.

“Everyone thought Art was overreacting. He made us take all three of our current WITSEC cases and pass them off out of state. I drove Sandoval up to Cleveland with the new guy, Hardy.”

“I didn’t think you liked Hardy.”

“I don’t.  He’s about as entertaining as a Monday. But he dealt with all the administrative bullshit, officious little jerk. I think he enjoyed it. And that allowed me to have a conversation with the one good-looking deputy they have up there, Clara something, redhead, so he’s good for something”

“A nap.  A redhead. That’s nice. And all this while I was bleeding and hurting and taped to a chair hoping you’d come rescue me?”

“Actually, I think you were on the way to the hospital at that point. We got the word they’d found you on our way back.”

“Tim,” – this was Rachel interjecting – “we had nothing to go on. No trace of you.”

“Don’t worry, I know. I’m just fucking with him. And look at him. He’s not feeling bad about it anyway.”

Raylan clearly wasn’t, grinning back at them. “I wasn’t going to waste an opportunity.”

“Did he go quietly?”

“Sandoval? He didn’t say much. That was when I decided maybe Art had the right of it. Your guy was some spooked that you’d gone missing, did whatever we said without any attitude. The way you described him, I’d say that wasn’t his usual charming self I was seeing.”

“Raylan,” – again, Rachel – “I don’t think we should be discussing this. You know the investigation has been passed to DC.”

“Fuck DC.”

That Rachel didn’t approve of the attitude was clear by the look on her face, but she didn’t bother trying to set Raylan straight. She knew him better.

Tim hid his grin with a hand. He understood Rachel’s position but he was fully on Raylan’s side on this. _Fuck DC._ He couldn’t have said it better himself.

He’s still smirking at Raylan’s choice and succinct expression as he arrives at his house. He pays the driver and hobbles up the driveway. The dark and the quiet and the place altogether trigger a flashback to the attack. Another memory of his captivity blows through like a hurricane and clears out the alcohol fog.

_“Where is he?”_

_Fuck you. He’s too far gone to say it aloud. He looks numbly about the room, his view compressed to a narrow landscape by the swelling in both eyes._

_“Is he still conscious?”_

_They grab hair and pull his head back and he’s looking at a curious face._

_“He moved his eyes. He’s still with us.”_

_“Fuck. I thought this would be done by now. We’re gonna kill him at this rate.”_

_There’s one who watches, the most agitated. He paces at the back of the room, keeping his distance, eyes angry. He pushes past the main interrogator and gets his face right up close, lets out an incoherent and loud burst of sound that seems to promise an explanation for everything if Tim could only think clearly enough to understand it._

_“What the fuck’s your problem? Sandoval’s a fucking piece of shit! He ain’t worth any of this. Tell us where he fucking is.”_

_He’s stunned by the outburst – everything is suddenly altered by this rage. He feels spit on his cheek and his forehead. It does nothing to cool the sudden heat. He remains silent while he tries to figure out how this fits. It’s been cold until now. It’s been calculated._

_Angry Face grabs his hair again, yanks his head back again, close enough to kiss. “He ain’t worth it, you stupid fuck. He ain’t worth this broken fucking finger.” He lets go of Tim’s head and it drops painfully, not ready. He reaches down and snaps the first finger he can get a grip on. He’s furious. He screams in Tim’s face as he’s doing it. It’s primal, again no words form just raw anger, a blast of emotion and hot air and spit let loose._

Tim stops at the door, breathing hard. He works to calm down. He examines the memory.

It’s personal, not business. He’s only now realizing it. What did Sandoval do to this guy?

He watches it again in his head, remembers Angry Face stepping forward eagerly, leaning in with each blow from the fist of his accomplice as if he could add some energy to each punch. His anger transferred from the real object of his hatred, the man he can’t get to, Sandoval, to Tim. And Tim’s within reach.

_“Where is he?”  Words this time in the scream. He breaks a second finger without waiting for an answer._

Why is he so angry? That’s what Tim needs to find out. It’s something to move this forward. That’s where he’s going to start looking. He’s going to find a name for Angry Face.

The house is empty when he steps in, dark and quiet. The girls are gone. There’s a note – _Tim, thank you. Evelyn_ – a scribble underneath in purple crayon that must belong to Cecilia Rose. He can just make out her name. He hopes they’ve left Kentucky, taken a bus out of town and away from the asshole.  But Evelyn's mother is still in the hospital according to Rachel, unresponsive from another more devastating stroke and Evelyn won't leave her, and he knows from his job what the statistics say about domestic abuse and how it runs its course – there's a phone conversation and a promise and she's gone back to give the asshole another chance.

There’s nothing he can do.


	11. Chapter 11

He’s a good boy for the next week, mostly. The crutches have become an extension of his personality, with him wherever he goes, and he uses them for more than their intended purpose. He’s tripped Raylan with them once, just once. Shame on me, he thinks when he gets the glare from under the Stetson. He can’t trip him again – Raylan’s on the alert. He’s tripped Nelson a dozen times, Hardy almost as many. Shame on them, he thinks and he’ll keep doing it until they learn. He leaves Art and Rachel alone.

It's nothing but paperwork and he drowns himself in it, everything that Art or Rachel will let him have, even offers to do some for Raylan and Nelson. By the end of the week he needs to shoot something. Art can see it in the set of his sniper's jaw and suggests a whiskey late Friday, the clock just shy of five. It’s not what Tim has in mind to shoot but it’ll do until tomorrow. He plans to ditch the crutches the following morning and drive to a rifle range. He’s been off the knee for over a week. He’s been off the range much longer.

* * *

 

Word gets out. They’re a surprisingly solicitous bunch, all the old boys at the range. He’s respected there. It’s a narrow slice of life with simple rules and nothing outside the gate matters and anyone who can shoot as well as he can without shooting off his mouth all the time is worshipped. It doesn’t matter what you do off the range – who you are, how you earn your money, who you fuck, what make of truck you drive, which politician you hate least – it only matters what you do on the range. Can you shoot well and not be a braggart, and can you offer a sound opinion when it’s sought out but keep it to yourself otherwise? If the answer is yes and yes, and yes and yes, then you’re gold. Tim is platinum. He’s all that, and he rules the short and long range. Furthermore he’s quiet and decent to people who are decent to him. They crowd around today, breaking the rule of privacy for once, offer their help, commiserate in appropriate terms which Tim appreciates. Their commiseration is welcome since it's exclusive to escalating ideas for violent retribution, not sympathy. There’s a bit of chatter and then they leave him alone to get his groove back. No one hangs around to watch him shoot, no one comments if they do watch him on the sly.

He’s pragmatic and uses the tools at hand and currently that means anger. Again it allows him to focus and the morning isn’t as frustrating as he imagined it would be driving up. The road back to his former shooting self might not be as long as he’d feared. There are little adjustments made for a stiff knee, a body that isn’t quite as flexible as it was a couple of months ago, still tender and tight while the scar tissue around the ribs stretches out. It’ll take shooting often and regularly to settle back into it and fortunately he has the opportunity to do that – he’s not chasing fugitives and running overtime evenings and weekends. All in all, he’s pleased with the day, until he decides to walk the range with the owner. Tired legs, lungs working too hard. He’s horrified.

The range owner notices, pats him on the back and says, “Give it time, young man. You’ll be alright.”

“Fuckers.” It shoots out from that well of anger. Tim then dips his head at an angle as an apology for the language.

The range owner doesn’t seem to notice, or doesn’t care, though Tim’s never heard a curse from him.

“So what’s gonna happen to them?” he says while he and Tim study the target, the grouping.

“Who?”

“The fuckers.”

“Oh.” Tim chuckles hearing his words back. “Don’t know.”

“They caught them though, right?”

Tim shakes his head. “As far as I know they don’t got much, not one name even.”

“And who are ‘they’?”

“Special investigative team outta DC.”

“Clearly not doing their job then. _Special,_ my ass.”

Tim chuckles again then starts laughing. Hearing that kind of language from an unexpected source is a wonderful tonic. “I didn’t think you ever swore.”

“I’m gonna have to pray extra hard tomorrow for this little transgression.”

“Put in a good word for me. I’ve used my annual quota of curses in the last two months.”

They walk back to the line talking about what Tim has to work on. Tim decides to stay longer, says he may try Hathcock’s sitting position to take the pressure off the ribs and make breathing easier.

The owner stands behind him while he gets seated on the ground, rifle supported on an arm on a knee.  He watches him fire off three rounds. He nods, says, “I’d be happy with that showing, but I doubt that’s good enough for you. You’ve got the breathing right. Trigger work’s still good.”

Tim huffs – he’s been doing that a lot lately. “It’s not comfortable yet, even sitting. It’s the twisting – the ribs are still getting me.”

There isn’t much talking left to do and neither of them is a talker anyway. Tim focuses on his rifle, sends three more bullets downrange.

The owner watches the target, drops the binoculars and nods in appreciation of the skill. He describes where the three shots landed though Tim already knows, looking through the scope on his rifle.  He comments on the wind picking up then says, “What’re you gonna do about it?”

"The usual.  Compensate.  It's blowing pretty much straight across so..."

"Not the wind."

“The ribs?” Tim shrugs. “More stretching.”

“No. I mean about the fuckers who did this.”

Tim turns around and looks at his friend as if he's only now seeing him truly.  “First things first,” he says in response.  "I gotta find them."  He sets up again, left knee up, arms crossed around the rifle. A twinge in his left side and he tenses. He breathes through it. He chambers a round, pictures an angry face, aims.

* * *

 

The route he jogs is different from the one he ran before. It’s been altered out of necessity and now it includes the neighborhood where Evelyn directed the cab driver to drop her off that day. He’s looking for her. It helps. It’s motivation to push it.

The doctor gave him the okay to start running.  "Take it easy," he said. He should’ve given him a prescription for a tattoo – _take it easy_ – had him ink it on his arm where he could read it when he tied on his runners the first day. What was he expecting after that long?  That he'd just pick up where he left off?  He still feels stupid about it.

He set out on his old route, made it only a few blocks before his lungs stopped him cold, bent double and dry-heaving. He thought it was the rehab knee that would handicap him. He didn’t think about the scar tissue in the lungs. He had a fit of temper right there on the street, screaming obscenities and making it worse, limped home panting, every breath burning, his throat sore. He had a beer to soothe the burn because the thought of water put him in a destructive frame of mind, wanting to tear it all down. A house wrecking. He opened a second one out of spite, hurting only himself, then he chased it with a double shot of whiskey. Fuck it. He went to bed defeated, woke up determined and strapped on his shoes, limped home again, soundly beaten. That’s when the idea of the tattoo came to him, standing on a street a quarter mile from his house with his lungs lashing out once again, rebelling and enticing his stomach to join in the mutiny. Eggs and toast and coffee blended with acid on the asphalt.

He keeps at it but it’s not getting better. It seems he’ll never get back to where he was before. Patience, he tells himself sitting on a curb not even a half mile from home on his sixth day out, chest and legs burning. Patience.

Day seven he wakes up early to run again before work but he doesn't get up, lies there instead, his morale exhausted. What’s the point? Then he stops beating himself up. Day eight he turns right at the end of his driveway instead of left, new scenery, no distance markers in place to taunt him, running till the breathing starts to hurt, no further, then he walks home. He’s up again the next day and the next. It’s working for him.

The idea to look for Evelyn comes a few weeks later when he makes it as far as North Broadway and Loudon, a mile and a half. He plans to walk back as part of his routine, a good warm down for his knee and his lungs. He stops at the corner, breathing heavily and only a hint of a burn now, reads the signs at the intersection and remembers her voice speaking over the car seat to the cab driver. He didn’t end up at that part of town on purpose but now he's here he thinks about her, wonders how she’s doing. He half expects to see her, or a flash of pink. He turns in a circle looking.

* * *

 

He's out running late on a Saturday.  A vehicle pulls in by the curb from behind him, the wrong way on a one way street. He reacts, jumps onto the lawn of the house he’s running past, turns ready for battle. It’s a black Town Car. The window rolls down.

“Fuck.” He lowers his hands and steps closer to the car. “Raylan… Jesus.”

“Do you carry when you’re out running?”

Tim leans down and pulls a subcompact out of a back holster underneath his baggy t-shirt, taps the barrel on the bit of window still up. _Tink, tink_. The sound is properly threatening.

“Guess I’d better be more careful next time not to startle you,” says Raylan. “Get in.”

“Why? I’m out for a run on purpose.”

“You look tired.”

“Raylan…” The tone is impatience.

Raylan smirks. “I got someone you’re gonna wanna meet.”

“Who?”

“Get in and I’ll tell you.”

Tim straightens up, slips the gun back in its holster and walks around the car and slumps annoyed in the passenger side. “This is a one way.”

“So, I’ll turn around.”

“Who are we meeting?”

“Clive Dunstan.”

“And I care…why?”

“He’s from DC – part of the special investigative team looking into your little mishap. He’s curious to meet you. He’s not supposed to be.”

“Not supposed to be curious or not supposed to be meeting me?”

“Both, I guess.”

“Well, I guess I’m curious to meet him.”

“I bet you are. He’s waiting for us at The Chase.”

“The Chase?” Tim looks down at his clothes, the sweat stains, the worn hems, thinks about his waitress. “I look like shit.”

“He won’t care.” Raylan turns to look at Tim and smiles. “Or are you more concerned about that waitress?”

“Forget it.”

Raylan won’t forget it. He’s chuckling. “Why don’t you just ask her out?”

“I said forget it.” He takes hold of the front of his sweaty t-shirt and fans it, leans forward to let some air across his back. “What’s he doing in Lexington?”

Raylan ignores the question, focuses on the actions. “You look fine. You got some of those hormones coming out in the sweat. I read somewhere it drives girls crazy.”

“Fuck off.”

Raylan’s enjoying himself too much to oblige. “You do look like shit. You got a hole in the knee of those sweats.”

“I said fuck off. Why’s Mr. Clive Dunstan in Lexington on a Saturday? They suspect you of something?”

“He came to talk to Art again, look at phone records, check the house where we had Sandoval, take a tour of the horse farms.  Like it matters."

Tim opens his mouth to reply, something sarcastic, but it's too personal.  He lets Raylan keep talking.

"Me and Clive worked together in Miami briefly – he was moving out as I was coming in. We got along. I did him a favor.”

“What, you blow him?”

Raylan’s smile drops, he turns a sharp eye on Tim. “You are in a pissy mood. You want me to let you out here so you can run it off?”

He is in a pissy mood. He’s in a pissy mood every time he goes out running. He's in a pissy mood whenever he thinks about the investigation.  “No. I wanna talk to Mr. Dunstan.”

“Then stop being an asshole.”

“I was just following your example, Raylan. Imitation is the greatest form of flattery.”

“Well you’re a quick study. If you're gonna be this pissy, you’re buying.”

“Fine.”

They don’t speak to each other for the few remaining blocks to The Chase. As Raylan pulls into a parking spot on the street, Tim says, “I don’t have my wallet. I don’t take it running. I got ID and a five dollar bill.”

“But you carry a firearm.”

“Makes perfect sense to me.”

“Yeah, to me too.” Raylan picks up his hat from the console between them. “Fine. I’ll pay. You can owe me. Besides, I think I’m as curious to hear what old Clive has to say as you are.”

“I doubt it. And you owe me anyway.”

“Since when?”

“Since you…   Well, always.”

“I guess I’ll take your word for it. I don’t tend to keep track.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Shut up, Tim.”

* * *

 

“’Your pictures don’t do you justice.’ What an asshole.” Clive Dunstan has caught a cab for the airport and left them drinking and Tim is happy to see the back of him. He didn’t like him, is now mimicking what he feels were Clive’s more stupid comments. “Was he trying to be funny?”

“They were some pretty horrific photos.”

Tim tilts his head.

“Yeah, well,” says Raylan, “maybe I forgot what a moron he is. Anyway, get anything useful?”

Clive’s most redeeming quality is a loose tongue. He told Tim everything that he’s been able to get out of the DEA agent in charge of the case being built on Sandoval’s testimony. Most of it is information that Tim has already pulled from the files, but there are interesting tidbits in the gossip that didn’t make it into any report. The DEA had been working on turning another member of that particular drug gang. Sandoval was, as far as they were concerned, bottom of the list of possible snitches. They steered clear of him. Never bothered. Sandoval was content in his role as an enforcer – mean, loyal, hardened to the life. The DEA’s disbelief when he came to them voluntarily, said Clive, was almost greater than their disbelief at his reason for snitching. Sandoval said he was reformed, wanted out of crime. No one bought it. Everyone figured he was skimming, except he wasn’t. Then everyone figured he was on the out with the boss, except he wasn’t. It was a sudden split. It was a mystery.

It’s still a mystery. Tim spent enough time with Sandoval to feel as perplexed as the DEA. Is all this useful? Maybe. “I think it confirms something for me.”

“What’s that?”

“That it’s something personal he’s hiding from. He did something he shouldn’t have. I don’t think it had anything to do with the business.”

“Must’ve been bad, whatever he did.”

“Yeah.”

“At least, I hope so.”

“Yeah.” Tim understands what Raylan means. He doesn’t want to entertain the idea that he might’ve suffered this much for something trite, money owing, or insulted pride. It’d better be something worthy of a Greek tragedy. “He’d better have killed somebody’s mother.”

“Or kid.”

His favorite waitress is serving them. He has mixed feelings about it. She appears at the table as he finishes the last mouthful of beer in his glass. She asks if they want anything else, smiles at Tim and adds, “Haven’t seen you in a while. Have you been sick? You look thinner.”

He looks at her but only long enough to see the smile then he turns his attention to his hands and wrings his beer glass thoroughly. “Been away,” he says.

Raylan clarifies. “He’s been in the hospital.”

“Oh my God,” she says, properly concerned. “What happened?”

Tim glares at Raylan; Raylan pretends not to notice.

“You read the paper?”

She nods.

“Remember some weeks ago – US Marshal found beaten near to death?”

She nods.

Raylan indicates his drinking buddy; his drinking buddy mouths, “Fuck you.”

The waitress squats down and rests her chin on her folded hands on the table and looks hard at Tim. “I thought you’d been transferred and didn’t bother to come in and say goodbye. Shit, I wish I’d known. I’d have come visit you at the hospital.”

“I wasn’t much company.” It comes out a mumble.

“Maybe just as well I didn’t know. I’d probably have tried to sneak you in a beer, just out of habit.” She’s smiling again, trying to pull one out of him too.

“There were a few times I thought I’d like a beer.”

“You want another one now?”

He tips his empty glass a little to ensure it really is empty. “Sure.”

She looks at Raylan.

Raylan pokes his hat back and grins. “I’m drinking if he’s drinking.”

“Nice to have you back in one piece,” she says, stands and squeezes Tim’s shoulder and leaves a hot spot nagging at him. “This one’s on me.”

“No, that’s alright,” he says but she waves him away.

Raylan watches her slip behind the bar. “I think she likes you, Tim. You play it right, maybe you can show her your scars later.”

“Stop helping me.”

“Hey, I got you a free beer.”

“You’re paying, remember?”

“Right. Good for me.”

“Yeah, good for you.”


	12. Chapter 12

He's at work early, sitting at his desk scrolling through a database of mugshots. He's looking for a face. One of the three has to have been arrested before, has to be a blip on somebody's radar somewhere – you don't get that mean and have no one notice. That level of violence doesn't come naturally. It's a hell-fire baptism, a way of life that builds on itself and should leave a trace trail for him to find. He's confident in this. His confidence falters though when he brings up a face to compare with the ones in his head. He's working from damaged memories. There are entire days that are gone. The memories he's relying on were scrambled in the beatings, distorted by fear, diluted by hospital drugs. The bits that remain to him are suspect, fitted together after the fact. Eyewitnesses are notoriously unreliable and he's no exception. But he keeps looking. What else can he do? He knows how this might appear to his friends on the job – desperate. He also knows what's next, that if he gets frustrated with this he'll be flying to Las Cruces to beat a confession out of Deputy US Marshal Taylor. He looks around the empty bullpen, a mental roll call, and he knows it's no one here. He just knows. Sandoval was only in Kentucky for three days when his visitors showed up at Tim's house. Too little time between.

Art strolls in with a coffee, the morning paper tucked under his arm, stops inside the double doors and checks his watch and looks at his deputy. "Alright – one morning, whatever, but two weeks of early mornings? What're you up to?"

Tim stops scrolling. "Looking for a face. Not against the law, is it?"

"No."

Art's 'no' sounds as if it wants a qualifier tagged onto it, like he's holding back from adding a 'but.' Tim leaves it alone and goes back to his scrolling, pretends not to hear what isn't said. But his boss is speaking plenty through the silence, still watching him and Tim can feel it. He looks up again, belligerence in the movement, in time to see Art absentmindedly take a sip of his coffee while eyeing Tim. He's burnt his lip, careless with the hot liquid, pulls the cup away too quickly and spills a drop or two, swears under his breath while he wipes at the drip on his shirt.

"Dammit, this was clean this morning."

"I'm just looking," says Tim with more heat than he intends, gives a lot away in his tone. "Nobody else is doing anything about it. You want me to stop, then order me to stop."

Art has his tongue out worrying the burnt spot gently, looking affable not accusatory, innocent of anything that Tim is implying in his grumping.

"You all right?" says Tim, feeling bad now about snarling at him.

He gets a nod. Art is still focused on his burnt lip. "Shit, that hurt." He holds up the takeout cup and reads the side of it. "Maybe I'll sue."

"Don't. I like that coffee shop."

"Yeah, so do I. Maybe instead I'll smarten up and let my hot beverage cool a bit before I drink it rather than suing somebody for my stupidity. Seems unfair to get millions and be able to retire in luxury just because you're as dumb as a post thinking that coffee isn't hot." He starts walking toward his office but veers right and ends up at Tim's desk.

Tim watches the approach from the corner of one eye, anticipates a full interrogation and polishes his rationalizations and righteousness while he continues to scan the database.

"So, you're looking for a face, are you? Any specific search parameters? No, wait. Let me guess. Young, single, female, enjoys cheap beer and expensive firearms."

"Close. Male, Caucasian, twenty to fifty, smoker, enjoys duct tape and beating on US Marshals."

"Not what I would've picked for you, but…you know…live and let live. Though do you really think you'd be happy with somebody like that?"

Art lets the joke float a bit. Tim isn't laughing, eyes back again browsing the screen, surprising intensity for such a passive activity. Art sets his coffee and paper down, drags over the chair from in front of Raylan's desk, pulls it around beside Tim and sits. He watches the slideshow.

"That's all you got to go on – white male, twenty to fifty? They all start looking the same. Nothing to narrow it down?"

"Nope."

"Even with the bizarre hobbies, that's a lot of possibles. Every guy I know likes duct tape."

"Yep."

"And you're just gonna…" – he waves vaguely at Tim's monitor – "…keep doing this?"

"Yep."

"There's got to be a way to refine your search."

"The DEA won't let us into their database so I've been searching the general one, first just on Sandoval – known associates and known associates of known associates. Nothing. Then I went through anyone attached to the drug ring he's part of…"

"You'd think the DEA would want us to find the guys who are trying to kill their star witness." Art takes a more careful sip of his coffee, winces when it touches his lip. "It's a mystery how their brains work over there."

"Too much cocaine snorting going on."

There's a noise of amusement and agreement from Art. "I guess you already tried filtering for just Las Cruces addresses?"

"Yep."

"New Mexico?"

"Yep."

"Drug charges? Assault?"

"Yep."

"There's really no point in my trying to improve your hound dog instincts, is there?"

Tim stops scrolling again and turns to face his boss. "You come up with an idea I haven't thought of, I'll listen."

"Let me think about it."

Art gathers his coffee and paper, gets up and trudges to his office. He leaves the chair where it is, blocking Tim's escape. Tim huffs at it, at Art, stands and drags the offending chair back around to the front of his desk.

Once he's up, he doesn't feel like sitting again right away. He feels like some air. "You want anything from the coffee shop before somebody sues them and they go out of business?"

"Got a coffee, thanks. Burnt my lip, remember?" Art holds it up for him to see but Tim has his back to him already, heading for the hallway. Art waits until he gets to the door to say, "If they have any of those apple fritter things…"

"Alright."

* * *

 

He's lost in his thoughts and Rachel's distracted. Phone to her ear, hand on her forehead worrying something, she almost collides with him stepping off the elevator on the main floor. He glowers at her then walks past and through security and on out the door to the street. He hears her say, "I'll call you back" and then she appears at his elbow.

"Where are you going?"

"Coffee."

"How long have you been here?"

"Couple hours."

"A couple of hours!" She looks at her phone to check the time. "Is Art even in yet?"

"You ask a lot of questions. Yes, he's in and he wants an apple thingy."

"I'll come with you."

 _"You_ want a coffee?" She rarely has coffee before ten.

"No, I'm just coming to help you."

"Aw, that's so nice. I appreciate it. I was wondering how I was gonna possibly carry a coffee _and_ that apple thingy." He glowers again. When they're out on the sidewalk he stops and turns to face her. "What?"

"What?"

"You know what."

"I thought I'd keep you company."

"Exactly."

Her eyes widen out expressively. "Oh, shit."

"What?"

"Tim?" It's Tara. The voice comes from behind him. He makes a face to match Rachel's before he turns around.

"Hey." It's all he can think to say. All that time naked and that's all he has for her.

"Hey? That's it? That's it?! Where've you been? Why haven't you called? You… I didn't even get a text dump. You managed to go one lower than that."

"You're right." He pulls out his phone and starts texting her.

"Fuck you!" She punches him, gets his shoulder, winds up for seconds.

Rachel steps in, stands between them. "Hey. That's enough."

He stops texting and looks at Rachel, bemused at her interference in this.

Tara doesn't take much notice of her, continues to let her feelings out verbally, yelling at him over Rachel's shoulder and jabbing a finger as far as she can reach. "My sister told me to dump you ages ago. I should've listened. She said I deserved better. She's right. You are such an asshole! Don't bother with the text. Don't bother me, period."

And that's it. She turns abruptly and leaves before he can say to her that it was exactly his intention not to bother her again, so what's the problem? It's just as well she didn't give him an opportunity to retort. He'd just come off as an asshole. He tries to feel it properly, that he is an asshole, but he feels nothing except the punch and even then she didn't put any shoulder into it.

He says to Rachel, "What are you, my bodyguard?"

Rachel doesn't turn around, she's watching Tara's exit. "You didn't call her after you got out of the hospital?"

He shakes his head then realizes she can't see it. "Nope."

"Nothing?"

"Nope." A shrug. "Wasn't anything to say."

"What an asshole thing to do."

He's not entirely sure if Rachel is aiming that comment at him. She's still watching Tara storming off across the street and down the sidewalk away from them.

"I figured if she hit your ribs she'd set you back a few weeks." Rachel turns finally, takes his elbow and leads him to the coffee shop. "See, you did need my help. Next time, don't be such an asshole."

Now he's certain she's aiming the comment at him, but he's not entirely sure for what. The scene brings to mind his idea for an asshole apartheid and he outlines the concept for her. She's amused until he tells her when and where the idea occurred to him, then she's upset.

"You're not an asshole," she says. "You just behave like one sometimes. But I know you better."

He thinks that's splitting hairs, but he's grateful that she's trying to find a way to keep him on her side of the dividing line so he stops needling her about being his chaperone, lets her help with his errand. She carries Art's apple fritter.

* * *

 

Every time he looks up from his desk Art is watching him. Maybe the Chief is trying to catch him doing something wrong so he can put him back on a desk. Maybe he's hoping to catch him scrolling through the database on company time so he can practice being angry. Maybe, and most likely, he's more worried about Tim's early morning activities than he's letting on.

Tim's been given the medical all-clear to return to active duty, a week and half now he's been let off the leash, and he's been behaving, but maybe Art's not as sure as the doctor. He can't think of anything – except the database search on an investigation that he's been warned away from – that might make Art edgy. He lets it go another hour but then, after hanging up the phone and crossing the last number off a list of potential contacts for a new fugitive warrant that was dumped in his lap this morning, he looks up and over at his boss and catches Art staring again. Tim tilts his head and raises his eyebrows and mouths 'what?' The insolence carrying across the distance even without sound. Art narrows his eyes then swivels in his chair so his back is to him. There's a cabinet behind Art's desk and he stands at it and opens a drawer, drops his reading glasses from his bald head to his nose, and leans over the files. Tim glares another thirty seconds hoping Art will turn around and notice, but he doesn't, so Tim gives up and starts into level two of his fugitive hunt.

He's combing through the DMV database matching names and dates against another list when Art appears in front of his desk with a folder. He's holding it like it's loaded, cautiously, two-handed. He won't look at him.

"Let's take a walk, Tim. I need a coffee."

"Now?"

"Now."

There's no point in any further questioning. Art's got his Chief's hat on and he's barking short orders and there's an expectation of blind obedience. Tim plays the subordinate part well. He keeps his rebellious thoughts to himself, pushes back his chair and logs off his computer and opens his drawer for his keys and wallet. Art is already out in the hall and is standing holding the door open, waiting. He hustles to catch up. Rachel is watching, as confused as Tim. Art gives her the nod which means that she's in charge until he gets back.

The folder has Tim's full attention. The drawer that Art went to before he demanded Tim's company for coffee is where he keeps all the employee files. It stays locked. Even Rachel doesn't have a key. This folder came from that drawer. It's thick. It's officious looking. Tim worries that word has come down from on high that he's to be taken off of field work, permanently. Maybe they don't think he's fit, mentally or physically, after what happened. He was there to hear the okay from the doctor, but he hasn't seen the report from the psychologist. He could if he wanted to. Art offered. He said no. He played it casual but it spooks him, that report. He's worried about what people can see that he's trying so hard to hide. His world has changed and he's changed with it and he's not sure how it's going to affect his job.

Art takes the folder firmly in both hands again, thumbs worrying the top, stares at the elevator door.

Tim's eyes are on the restless thumbs; his mind is occupied with the contents of the folder.

There's a veneer of normalcy in the bullpen these past two weeks that he can see, like he's got an outsider's vantage, face at the window wanting in. He's waiting for it to shatter at his feet and either let him in or push him out for good. He watches Hardy settle into his role, Raylan come and go stirring up the locals in Harlan, Rachel be officious and efficient, Nelson run to keep up. Tim acts his role, wooden, chases fugitives and does transport duty. He's keeping up appearances out of habit. He had to work overtime this past weekend helping Rachel on a stakeout. They talked in the car like nothing happened, like before. He goes to the bar with Raylan as much as he always did, sometimes with Art too, sometimes Rachel joining them. But still it's a sham. It's all a fake since. He's slipping and sliding on the surface of it. Holding his breath, waiting. Maybe this is what he's been waiting for – the other shoe to drop. He pictures a boot instead, steel toe, steel shank. Maybe he's won the battle but lost the war.

By the time they get to the coffee shop and are seated at a table as far back in a corner as is possible in the tiny storefront, steaming mugs standing like a last supper, Tim is resigned to his fate. He imagines what he might do next because staying with the Marshals Service on a desk is not in his future. Art sets the folder on the table and nudges it ever so slightly in Tim's direction.

Tim settles back solidly in his chair, bracing for the impact. He flips open the folder and takes in the first page of the contents. It's not what he's expecting. It's a shock seeing it. He wishes Art had suggested they go to a bar instead. It's a photo. It's a stack of photos, evidence pictures of him taken at the hospital when he was first brought in. He doesn't recognize himself. It takes a moment for him to understand what he's looking at. The first is a close up of his face, eyes swollen, his entire face swollen. He wets his lips and flips to the next one, and the next, burn marks, bruises, cuts. A graphic picture of the damage from the pipe, white ribs showing through a red, yellow and pink pulp that is his flesh. He squirms in his chair. Art reaches over after the sixth and thumbs through to the bottom of the pile of photos and flips them upside down off to one side, then drops a thick finger on what's underneath. It's the report, all of it, every detail, statements, interview transcripts, evidence drawings and diagrams, maps of Lexington, maps of Las Cruces. Everything.

"I'm hoping you can find something in here that'll help narrow your search. You've got a knack for connecting things from reports. Maybe you'll have better luck than the folks from DC. I'll see you tomorrow."

Art stands abruptly and leaves Tim with two full mugs of coffee and a loaded gun.


	13. Chapter 13

There's a knock at the door. He stands up to go see who it is. A quick check of his watch – past ten. It's likely Raylan looking for an extra finger on a trigger, or Art to see what he's made of the report. Art's been patient, not a word spoken about it in the office. He reaches across the papers spread out over his kitchen table, sticky notes and highlighter marker streaks in garish neon dividing and corralling the black and white into a mad pattern, and picks up his handgun before heading to the hall. He won't be caught off his guard a second time. He can see an outline silhouetted on the privacy glass by the light from the street, a halo of hair in shadowed black. He stares a minute trying to make sense of his confused feelings, then turns back to the table and hastily gathers the papers one-handed, dumps them without ceremony into the kitchen's junk drawer. A last look around the room then he trots to the front door and opens it. It isn't until he's let them in that he realizes he's still carrying his handgun.

He tucks his right hand and the weapon it's holding behind his back and flattens out the left, palm up, down at knee level for a slap from Cecilia Rose as she skips past him into the house. Evelyn slinks in behind her but doesn't shy away from his eyes when they catch hers. He has questions.

"Let me get her to bed," she says, her voice low, "then we can talk."

* * *

 

"I now know why she doesn't want me near her house."

Rachel looks up from her sandwich. "She? Evelyn?"

"She and the little miss are back."

"At your place?"

Tim nods around a mouthful of burger.

"Tim…" Rachel clearly disapproves but stops herself from speaking, reconsiders her words, a bare shrug. "Is she okay?"

"Not really, but only bruises this time."

"And why doesn't she want you near her house?"

"She's married to a cop, LPD."

"No." It's drawn out and expressive, unusual for Rachel. She drops her sandwich and covers her face with her hands. She knows what this means. It's unwritten but scrawled in blood on every surface in this line of work – you don't mess with someone you might have to rely on for your life. The Lexington Marshals Office works hand in hand with the Lexington Police Department, every day. "For God's… Tim, don't go there. Send her…"

"Send her where? LPD to file a report?" He takes another bite of his burger, looks over the crowd in the restaurant. It's a local law enforcement haunt, and there are ghosts lurking today. He wonders if the asshole is in here right now.

"Tim, you can't…"

"Hey, don't think I don't know it. I probably know it better than anyone."

"Tim…"

 _"I know."_ He stuffs in the last bite and sits back in the booth and picks up a napkin and wipes his mouth. "It's fucked," he says. He can see she's not sure what he's referring to and he's not certain he's sure either. Maybe everything.

* * *

 

Art strides through the bullpen from the hall pulling Nelson and a clerk from downstairs behind him like flotsam and jetsam in the drafting wake of an ocean liner. He's clearly in a mood. He loses his train of debris halfway to his office, the two slink off to Nelson's desk to complete whatever task has been assigned to them. Tim glances up briefly then back to his work.

"Tim. My office. Now."

So that's how it is today.

He slaps the report he's been working through onto his desk and then carefully lines up a pen underneath the sentence he was reading when he was interrupted. It's a dull account of a robbery investigation and he doesn't want to have to read it twice, not one word of it. He hopes the detective whose name is penned at the bottom doesn't have hopes for a career as a true crime author. He glances at Nelson and the clerk, heads together in a tête-à-tête, and learns nothing from their body language to explain what's led to Art's gruff mood. He unfolds from his chair at a leisurely pace, stretches, then purposely takes his time, strolls the fifteen feet to the office, hands buried in his pockets. He pulls them out when he reaches his destination, crosses his arms and leans on the doorjamb, half in, half out, a good tactical position.

"What's up?"

Art's had time to sit, log in and start reading something, his lips moving slightly to help the words along. The lips pause and pucker, a subtle acknowledgement of Tim's presence, but the eyes don't look up. Art says, "You rode with Raylan yesterday afternoon."

It might be a question; it might be a statement; it might be what's on the screen now and Art's decided to read it aloud. Tim can't tell and Art's giving nothing away. He proceeds carefully. "Yeah, we, uh…did a run out to the back forty checking for strays. Ran across a posse out near Behan's ranch trying to run down a pair of boys who stirred up some mischief in town last night, shot up the saloon. We offered to help and it was gratefully accepted on account of we know the area. We ended up catching the outlaws ourselves so the owner of the saloon bought us and the sheriff a round. It was right kindly of him. On the way back we circled by the cut up at the northeast end, found a dead calf near the creek. Figure it was wolves got at it, maybe wild dogs. We should keep an eye out. Then – wouldn't you know it? – my horse took lame…"

Art looks up midway through the bullshit but doesn't interrupt right away. He's amused; his mouth twitches. Finally he says, "Behan?" He makes a face, thinking. "Wasn't that the name of the sheriff in Tombstone or something?"

"You know your Marshal history."

Art beams, happy for the praise, then ropes the smile back in and says, "Don't flatter me. I know you're trying to distract me from the fact that you disobeyed my orders yesterday."

Tim is sincerely confused. "What orders?"

"I told you to keep a hundred yards away from Raylan at all times."

"That? I thought that rule expired when I got back on regular duty."

"It expires when I say it expires."

Tim huffs, not in the mood today for Art's make-believe officiousness. "Can we just pretend you said okay?"

Art's done with playtime, voice brisker now and he gets down to business, the real reason he called Tim in to talk to him. "How's it going at the range? The _shooting_ range."

"Didn't you already get that report from Raylan?"

"The long distance range."

"Oh. Alright, I guess."

"Just all right?"

"Better than expected."

"So you think you're ready if I need you on a rifle?"

"Yep."

"More confidence, please."

"Yessir."

"Better." Art peers over his glasses, studies the figure in his doorway. "Hell, Tim, look at you." He takes off his glasses and stands up, waves an arm up and down encompassing the full length of the deputy marshal that is Tim Gutterson. "That's the first time you've done that lean thing since what happened. I guess you are feeling better."

The doorjamb is a bit close to focus on but Tim turns his head anyway to amuse Art and gives it a good stare, and then looks down at his shoulder resting on it. "Shit, you're right. It doesn't hurt to bend like this anymore."

"That's wonderful. Now stop leaning on my door frame and get your butt in here and close the door behind you."

Tim pushes off and realizes he doesn't feel it, not anywhere. His recovery has been sneaking up on him. It took Art to see it, point it out. The advantage of an outsider's view. Tim takes a deep and incautious breath and feels just a hint of a reminder. He shuts the door as ordered and settles into a chair. Art comes around his desk to sit near him.

"Find anything useful in that report?"

"Do you need it back?"

"I've read it through a billion times, no a billion and one, well, maybe six…and a half. I can't find anything in it." He stops here to make sure he's got Tim's attention, pausing for emphasis. "Neither can they."

"So that's it? They're done?"

"Yep."

Tim nods, not surprised; surprised he's not disappointed; disappointed he's not surprised. "And they don't want me looking at it, do they? I'm not supposed to…"

"You're not even supposed to get a smell of it. I could get into some serious trouble for handing it over to you." Art slouches back, hands clasped behind his head. Not a worry in the world. "I'd probably lose my Chieftain, my bureau, maybe even my retirement benefits. Good thing Leslie has medical with her job." His voice is as light as a shell casing, the bullet already spent.

"You think they'd do that if they found out?"

Art considers the question, straightens up again and looks down at his hands dropped defeated into his lap. "I doubt they'd take it that far, considering how pathetic their investigation has been. But who knows? This kind of thing makes the uppers nervous. Being as near as they are to the full-time politicians they've learned the art of spinning anything to keep themselves shiny. Headquarters isn't in DC for nothing."

Art is fidgeting with the wedding band on his finger. He takes it off and turns it in a circle and slips it back on again. Then off again. Rarely does it leave his finger, only on those occasions when he has to go out into the real world with one of his deputies, when he anticipates getting his hands dirty. Those times it gets tucked safely into a desk drawer. Raylan takes off his hat; Art takes off his ring. Tim thinks back over the times he's worked with them both together, of the violence that always follows when Art bares his hands and Raylan sets his hat somewhere to keep it safe. Tim purposely doesn't carry anything he'd have to shed to be battle-ready. It's a habit learned, an expectation for his day that goes back years before he started this job. Light infantry – that's his training ground. His mind shifts through the things he owns and he wonders if any of them might work as that kind of anchor for him, a tether to the civilian world. Maybe he might find dating easier if he had something symbolic to slip on to put him in another mindset. It occurs to him that in fact he has the reverse problem – he has to take something off to feel a part of this world. He has to take off his weapons, all of them, including his knife, his holster. No way that's happening, not after the events of the past few months.

His hand slides unbidden around to his holster and his fingers read the violent Braille on the grip of his service weapon. The movement catches Art's eye and he appears to become aware of the symbolism that he's exuding subconsciously through his fidgeting. He pushes his ring firmly back on his finger and rubs his hands on his thighs, agitated after all.

"We all know who it was," he says, finally throwing the dirt up to catch the wind.

Tim understands that Art is setting something in motion. "Taylor."

"Who else? He's covered himself nicely. And it's not like they can go down there and beat a confession out of him. It's not Guantanamo."

It's as if Art has seen past Tim's desperate trawling through the database, seen a future with Tim alone in a room with Taylor and it worries him. He should worry. The only thing stopping Tim from a road trip to New Mexico is that it would ricochet back on Art. Tim won't do that. By giving him the report, Art is trusting Tim not to do that. So, he'll dig deeper, look for a connection that he can then speak in Art's ear and Art can then pass on to DC. Failing that, he'll find another way to get to Taylor. He's had no patience for his recovery but he has patience for this, for a proper Old Testament chapter of retribution.

"It's DC," says Art after a moment. "It's politics. They won't do anything unless they're a hundred percent certain. They don't want a dirty deputy so they won't find one unless they have to, do you understand?"

Tim nods.

"Keep the report as long as you need to. Keep me informed though, if you find something."

"Alright."

* * *

 

Raylan is waiting in the hall for him at the end of the day. Tim suspects he's looking for a drinking buddy. He's not entirely wrong.

"Buy me a drink. I'll make it worth your while." Raylan says it in a lowered voice then waves Tim onto the waiting elevator with the rest of the crowd leaving for home.

"Is this a come-on? I'll bet it doesn't work with the girls either."

"I'll let you pick the bar."

He gives in to the inevitable. "Fine. The Chase. I like it."

"Apparently that's all you like. I'm getting the impression that you never intend to actually _catch_ the girl you've been eyeing now for six months."

The elevator doors open onto the lobby. Tim steps off and to the left and stops, lets the hall clear then says to Raylan, "Here's an idea – why don't you just tell me what you want to tell me right here and save me the trouble of having to socialize with you."

Raylan smiles generously. "Rachel's worried about you."

"Is that what you want to talk to me about?"

"No. You just made me think about it, you being all surly. She says you're too serious since what happened."

"I'll lighten up again, don't worry. As soon as I find the three fucks that taped me to that chair and…" He can't think of an appropriately vengeful action to focus on, he's tried out so many in his head. The sentence ends in an unsatisfactory way.

"And… what?"

"I haven't made up my mind yet."

"Best get figuring that out before you find them. So, beer?"

* * *

 

Raylan repeats what Art already told him, only by way of Clive. The investigation is dead in the water, a bloated lifeless corpse floating just below the surface, unrecognizable, blurred and grotesque, stripped of dignity and purpose. They all suspect Taylor.

The beer tastes good anyway at the end of the day and Tim doesn't really mind sitting in the bar drinking with Raylan. His waitress is big smiles and talkative tonight. It's a step back, a reminder of what was and what might be possible again. He's not sure what's waiting for him at home, so he's not in a rush to get there. Evelyn is distant, hurt, hurting. She's beautiful and vulnerable and it makes him uncomfortable. He wants to fix it. Or he wants her. Both would be nice. Neither is possible.

"Who's paying this time?" she says, his waitress, standing holding the tally poised in one hand. She looks approachable and manageable and desirable, and yet she pales in contrast to the other woman that's on his mind. The realization makes him sad.

"That'd be me," he says and holds out his hand.

"Hold on." Zoe – she's introduced herself tonight – takes out a pen and leans over their table. She scribbles something on the back of the bill and then hands it to Tim. "Didn't want my phone number going to the wrong guy," she says and smiles for him.

He smiles back feeling like he's won something, a prize in a draw, unexpected, nothing earned, and nothing he can use. He feels like an asshole accepting the paper with the invitation on it while he thinks about Evelyn, but he hopes maybe it's just where he's at right now, that maybe the phone number will tug him back, kick off the next chapter.

Raylan is amused. "Now, Miss Zoe, heaven forbid I interfere in your life's business, but are you sure you want to be giving him your phone number? If we did a poll today of the people in his life, I think you'd find it'd come off nine out of ten that he's an asshole."

She doesn't look to be dissuaded from her purpose. "Well, all the guys I've dated so far have appeared to be nice guys and turned out to be assholes. Maybe I should be dating the guys that appear to be assholes. They might turn out to be nice."

Raylan concedes the point with a nod. "You might be onto something."

"I'm thinking of writing a book and imparting my dating wisdom."

"Best wait and see if he even calls you."

"He will."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Nobody tips that good and doesn't want my phone number."

Tim ducks his head, embarrassed.

"I'm off this Saturday," she says and moves away to take orders at another table.

"Shit, Tim," says Raylan. "How much did that phone number end up costing you, all in?"

"It's just money." Tim counts out the cash and leaves a generous bit extra then carefully folds the phone number and slips it into his wallet.


	14. Chapter 14

He thinks about Evelyn when he's with Zoe; now he thinks about Zoe when he's with Evelyn. He didn't think it possible to be that stupid.

He was surprised to find the girls still at his house when he arrived back from the bar with a paid tab and a phone number, but there seems to be more permanence to their presence this time. Evelyn's brought a suitcase. He's not heard her say, "We'll be gone today." No apologizing. She's been shopping. She's bought groceries and alcohol and made dinner for herself and him. She's put Cecilia Rose to bed and opened a bottle of wine and now she's opening a little of herself for him to see. She's a bit drunk. She's waited to eat with him and that makes him wriggle in his seat thinking about whether she does that for the man who beats her regularly too. It's not a comfortable feeling imagining himself in the same company as that asshole. He constructs a façade to exaggerate the differences, prying wider the gap so Evelyn will see he's not him and relax. He talks softly, moves slowly, pretends a passivity. He works to ask questions about her and her world, things he imagines that her husband doesn't do. He asks about her mother, about Cecilia Rose's birthday just passed. He asks about her home in South Carolina. While she answers he watches her move, feminine in a way he's not used to, fluid, exotic, ethereal. He feels awkward and earthbound. He feels like he's watching a movie. Evelyn is not comfortable, not in any way. Evelyn makes him want something he's never felt the need for until now. Evelyn makes him want to hide the dirt and shine his shoes. It wouldn't feel like that with Zoe. In fact it doesn't. Zoe is earthbound, tethered to the ground like he is. She laughs loudly and swears when she thinks the bar's patrons are safely out of earshot. Like him she's comfortable with a bit of dirt, and he thinks he'd be comfortable with her. People say 'comfortable' like it's a dirty word. Maybe it is. But not like they mean.

Evelyn sets down her wine glass; her arm glides across the table for the bottle. He imagines that arm on the skin of his back, wrapped around him from the front. When his mind takes off and takes the daydream further he slams on the brakes, pictures something he hates – Sandoval, an angry face. The change in his demeanor infects the room. She becomes wary and begins to fidget, nervously stands and clears dishes.

Tim stands too and she backs away.

"I'm sorry," he says. "It's not like that. I'm not that kind of guy."

She looks down at the knife she's unconsciously gripping, sets it on the counter.

"I was thinking about the fuckers who put me in the hospital." He regrets the word 'fuckers' and self-consciously turns to look into the hall expecting to see Cecilia Rose, wide-eyed. He wipes a hand across his mouth then sits back at the table. "Nothing to do with you."

"What happened?"

"I got the shit kicked outta me."

"I saw that much."

She waits for more but there's nothing coming. Eventually she picks up the wine bottle and her glass and carries them into the living room, and he stands again to follow, gets another beer and they settle on the sofa. She's answered all of his questions and he can't think of anything more to ask. His eyes move to the TV and he's about to suggest a movie when she starts talking again, this time about the beatings. It's a story told from the beginning and it won't stop. Every detail is in it, including some that he recognizes from his own story, the things he can't say coming out of her mouth. It's as if the asshole has punched something loose, knocked the lid off finally and all of her is spilling out and Tim is caught unprepared with nothing to catch it in and he's smothered by it, by his own story, drowning in emotions, anger swirling, for him, for her, desires surfacing with other feelings and all flailing madly looking for a way to the surface and out.

She doesn't cry. He wishes she would. It would dampen the mood. He's not supposed to want her like this. He was serious when he told Rachel it'd be stupid to get involved with her. It is stupid. She doesn't need it; he doesn't need it. But her skin calls to him – notes rich and soft. He can feel something radiating from her, a song that he can't tune out or turn off, cutting through the noise of his emotions, and he's getting hard, unconsciously leaning in. His eyes slide down the curves of her neck and his tongue wants a taste. His hand detaches itself from reason, slips across the small space between him and her and sends out a finger, reaches the last quarter inch and touches her in the hollow between her thumb and her wrist, achingly beautiful. She turns her head, eyes down watching the touch, tenses, but doesn't move her hand away and now it's done. There's a flash of second thoughts that fragments and disappears as his finger moves up over the back of her hand and invites the others with it and they follow on a smooth path up her forearm, spreading out over her elbow and enveloping her bared shoulder. Everything quiets for him as he focuses on her skin. She moves now, but not away, closer, turns her arm over and slides her hand into the sleeve of his shirt. There's no part of him that doesn't react to her touch. He wonders when the last time was she felt safe with a man, safe like this. It's his rationale that she needs to know that there are other kinds of men, kinder men than the one she's been with. But what does he know about it? What does he know about kindness? Nothing. It's his rationale, nothing to do with her, nothing to do with kindness. He's the one who needs something. He needs some kindness, something gentle, and he pulls her nearer until they're sharing his space and the bit of air between their lips. The façade slips and he struggles to keep it in place while his desires recklessly tear it down.

It's over before his orgasm, before he helps her relax and coaxes one from her too. It's over before he knows her outline against his sheets, before he kisses her. It's over before his hand crosses no-man's land and steals the touch. It's over before she knocks on his door the night past, and the time before that, over before her daughter sneaks into his hospital room to interrupt his recovery. It's over before he's introduced to his vulnerability taped to a chair in a cold room. It's over before he enlists, before he discovers his own store of violence. It's over before his birth in one state and hers in another. It never starts. He wakes up alone. She's slipped from his bed in the night and back into hers. The door to the back room is closed, sparkly pink runners strewn in his front hall. He showers and dresses and heads to work, leaves quietly, a thief, buys his coffee on the way to the office so she can sleep longer.

They're gone again when he gets home that night. He's not surprised though he wishes he were. He feels a twinge of guilt; larceny doesn't sit well with him.

He only understands one cure for a confusion of feelings. He jogs the two blocks to the store and gets a bottle of Jameson, unscrews the top and takes his first mouthful while he's kicking off his shoes in the hall, turns on the Xbox then ignores it and picks up the phone and calls his buddy in Ohio. They both drink while they catch up. The bottle is three-quarters empty and the screen saver is a pixel blur when he finally gets to talking about Evelyn.

"You are so fucking stupid." His buddy has a way with words. "What an asshole."

"Yep."

"So you gonna call that waitress?"

"Not sure. I doubt she needs an asshole in her life."

"What she doesn't need is for you to be an asshole and not call her. Fuck. Do I need to come down there and fucking kick your ass around Lexington? She gave you her fucking phone number. Give her a fucking call or give _me_ the fucking number. I'll call her. She's obviously not picky."

"Fuck you."

Their words are slurring now, a linguistic nightmare of sloppy consonants and curses. Tim is laughing and it comes out from somewhere deep and dark. He slides off the couch onto the floor and then lies down the rest of the way. He hangs up on his buddy midsentence, no warning, imagines his friend cursing at dead air and it keeps the laughter going. He tosses the phone across the room and it bounces off the chair and lands on the carpet.

He wakes up later with a dry mouth and a headache, stumbles to the kitchen for water and then stumbles upstairs to bed. He drifts in and out until the alarm wakes him at six and the first thought in his head after admitting to himself that he's still a bit drunk is that he's told his buddy about Evelyn and Zoe but still not a word of confession about what happened in that room, taped to that chair.

He puts on his runners and heads out as the sun comes up. The sidewalk is rolling beneath his feet in peaks and troughs of a rough whiskey sea. He dismisses the rolls his stomach is doing out of sync with the sidewalk and runs faster, studying each house on his route through the neighborhoods surrounding the corner of Loudon and North Broadway, looking for a hint of Evelyn or a flash of cornrows and pink baubles.

He hopes they've left Kentucky this time. He hopes he doesn't see a silhouette of a halo and a bruised angel on his front porch ever again.

He's close enough to sober when he gets back home that he showers and heads to the courthouse to work.

* * *

 

Tim suggested Rachel, but Art insisted on Hardy.

"He needs the experience," he said. "Besides, you're not expecting any trouble from this guy, are you?" Art motioned at the folder Tim carried in when he came to explain to his boss where he'd be spending his afternoon.

"No." No. No trouble. The warrant and the file outline a petty criminal, breaking and entering, simple assault. No trouble. Nothing he couldn't handle by himself except that he's tracked the man down to a rooming house that's notorious for agreeing to rent to felons. You never know who's going to walk out the front door and make your life miserable when you walk in. No pets allowed, but firearms are apparently encouraged. It's a standing rule at the office - no one goes there alone. That's why he asked for Rachel.

"Glynco trains them well," said Art, pushing Hardy. _"You_ didn't have any trouble."

Tim opened his mouth to remind Art that he had some unique experience prior to applying to the Marshals Service. Most of the instructors at Glynco couldn't begin to compete with the training he'd already been subjected to. But his brain hurt too much to argue, the rebuttal died on his lips and he nodded, compliant. Alright, Hardy.

Now he's regretting being so amenable. And he has a hangover.

"I heard about this place from Nelson," says Hardy when they pull up in front of the rooming house.

Hardy is already jittery. Tim considers leaving him in the car.

"Are you all right for this?" he asks and Hardy says, "Yep, it's what they train us for, or did you skip that day?"

He wants to lean over and punch Hardy in the face but all unnecessary movement is torture.  He grunts something and gets out of the car.

Less than two minutes later Tim has a situation on his hands. Hardy is barely standing, his pants soaked to the knee with piss. He's only upright because he's being supported by the felon with biceps like boulders who has him in a choke hold, a long and lethal knife pressed at his temple and already drawing blood. The felon is screaming at Tim to drop his weapon. _That's my line,_ thinks Tim and stands steady, ready to shoot somebody, and he's considering Hardy as a target. His head is still hammering from last night's binge. He can't call for backup. He doesn't dare relax his aim to reach for his phone. Hardy is ghoulish white and pleading; the felon is yelling and trying to take control of the situation by dragging his hostage backward through the doorway. Hardy is dead weight and slowing down the escape. At least he's doing something right. There's a crowd gathering and Tim is becoming concerned about what he can't see behind him. He wonders what the hell they're teaching them now at Glynco if this is the way the new recruits are handling a show of violence. You don't cower. You don't hesitate. You don't turn your back on the threat. This guy is a threat. Tim didn't come to this address for this particular felon but he's found him, the one ready to make a kebab of Hardy's gray matter. He knows his face. This asshole's been on the Eastern District of Kentucky's top five for three months. It's no wonder he reacted badly to the sight of a US Marshals star. He's been here before. He's a repeat violent offender, wanted for murder, armed robbery, in the wind until now. Hardy should've known his face.

Tim wants this day to end, quickly. He's angry about being put in this position. Sooner or later he'd have to rely on his shooting again, but he wanted it on his own terms, not hungover, not with an argument pounding in his already aching head.

_You can make this shot. You've made this shot a hundred times._

_Don't be a fucking idiot. You are not ready for this. You miss this shot and Hardy dies, one way or the other._

_Don't be a pussy – put the fucker down. Take the shot._

_Don't take the shot. What if you hit Hardy?_

_You don't miss. Gather your energy and focus, asshole. Take the fucking shot._

He pulls the trigger. It's cold and it's calculated and the round hits its intended target and he knows it with the same certainty that he knows his name even as both Hardy and the man with the knife fall backward through the glass of the door in a mess of blood and screams and flailing limbs.

* * *

 

Tim watches as Art pulls his car into the crowd of cruisers. It takes on the same colors, blue and red, as the rest of the vehicles crowded into the scene. Art's shirt too, blue and red, as he stands and sweeps his eyes through the mayhem and settles them on his people. Tim and Hardy are sitting on the steps to the old brick rooming house. A few feet in front of them the coroner is zipping up a body bag. Hardy has his head down, hands hiding himself. Tim is leaning back, a look of disgust on his face. He's spent the last hour telling Hardy that he's okay. Everything that's happening, happened, will happen, is a normal part of the job. He says they're all used to the smell of urine. He knows it intimately after a handful of deployments and then his time with the Marshals Service. There's no shame. He's said it a dozen times since he helped Hardy disentangle himself from the asshole and the blood and brain matter and fear. He's tired of saying it. He doesn't really believe it, not in this case. Hardy is done.

And Tim is still hungover. He promises himself no more drinking midweek.

Art walks over, waving off the locals who try to intercept. "Tim?" he says. "What happened?"

Tim explains, bored look, eyebrows up.

"Craig Stephens?" Art turns and looks at the outline of the body in the bag.

"One and only."

"Shit. Did you get your guy?"

"Nope."

"What the hell?"

"For some reason, I forgot why we came."

Art snorts, nods at the coroner's vehicle.

"Well, I'm happy to have him where we can keep an eye on him."

"Morgue."

"Yep." Art and Tim share a look and a history and an understanding. Art directs his attention then at his other deputy. "Hardy. You okay?"

Hardy doesn't answer. Tim shakes his head and it's answer enough.

Art leans down and pats Hardy on the shoulder. "It's okay, son. It's not fun being on this side of things. Give me a minute and then we'll get you outta here." He motions to Tim then and Tim stands up and they walk, put some distance between themselves and all other ears. "You mind telling me what really happened?"

Tim explains, the whole truth this time. Hardy fucked up and there's no point adding sugar to sweeten it. It'll get somebody on their side killed next time.

"Well, I think I'm done questioning your proficiency with a handgun."

"Appreciate that. Me, too."

"You were doubting yourself?"

"I dunno. I guess."

"Helluva shot."

"Yeah."

"You okay?"

"I'm fine. Hardy though…"

Art turns and looks back at Hardy. "Not everyone is cut out for this." He holds out his hand and Tim unclips his sidearm and sets it in the open palm. He appreciates that it's Art he has to surrender it to. He thinks about the cost of the custom trigger parts and sighs.

"Didn't have it very long. You carrying a backup?"

"Yessir."

"Then I don't have to worry about you going into withdrawal." Art gets half a smile. "C'mon, I'll buy you a drink." He looks at Hardy and waves a hand. "After..."

"Uh...it's a weekday."

"And you're on administrative leave until this clears. Mind you, shouldn't take too long."

"Right."

"It'll give you time to focus on other things."

Tim doesn't bother pretending he doesn't know what Art is referring to. He squints into the sun setting behind Art's shoulder. "I could use a drink." A bit late in the day for the hair of the dog, but he'll take it. So much for promises.


	15. Chapter 15

Rachel is a freakish mind reader.

"How's Evelyn?"

He's not said more than three words to her since he got in and they were: "Hey. What's up?" Nothing could be more bland and uninformative. Her head was buried in a file when he came through the doors and spoke his three words and she didn't bother responding. She didn't even look up. But it must show on her radar somehow that Evelyn is on his mind, handily beating out Hardy and the dead guy for top position in his thoughts. There's been a Marshal-involved shooting. He knows Rachel will have heard all about it, and yet the first thing out of her mouth is: "How's Evelyn?"

He's standing at the coffee machine counting scoops into the filter when she sneaks up on him and asks. The clock's hand is on the drinking side of seven. Art took Hardy straight home from the scene and sent Tim back to the office alone. A shooting is a big deal; a shooting because a deputy screwed up is a bigger deal. Art will want to talk it out, and he'll insist that everyone write up their statements before any drinking. It's been a long day that's going to pour into a long evening but that's okay. Tim's in no hurry to go home – just some caffeine needed to see him through the administrative obstacle course standing between him and a bar and a drink. He needs to get to work on his report but he's still fog-bound by a hangover and his messy feelings about Evelyn. This is the state of affairs that Rachel interrupts with her simple question.

He stops mid-task and turns to look at her, amazed. Then he answers her. "Disappeared again."

There's not a hint of sympathy when she says, "Is that why you drank so much last night that you were still drunk this morning? Tell me you didn't sleep with her."

"Fuck off." He's now fully convinced. Rachel _is_ a freakish mind reader, and she's made him lose count. He stares at the spoonful of ground coffee still poised in his hand. "Shit. Where was I?"

"Six."

He looks at her, looks down at the filter. "You sure?"

"I'm guessing." She peers over his arm at what's already been measured. "Sure. Six."

"Fuck it. I'm not fucking starting again." He dumps the coffee in, another scoop. "Fucking six. Fucking seven."

"That hangover you're wearing is interfering with your vocabulary."

"Fuck, Rachel. I can't. Just…fucking don't. Not today."

She holds out her hand and in it a piece of paper. He shovels another scoop of coffee into the filter and screws up his face in an expression of caffeine prayer and shuts the lid and takes the paper from her. She reaches past him and turns the machine on while he reads what's written on the note. It's an address. He reads it twice. He's no wiser.

"What? You need some company for this?" He waves the paper. "Someone with a sidearm and a hangover? Wait." He tilts his head for her. "I don't think I'm allowed. I just shot somebody."

"I heard. Are you okay?"

His expression is a slap. "Seriously? Save the concern for someone who needs it, like Hardy."

She's looking at him in that freakish mind-reader way. He glares back. They know each other too well. She shrugs away her concerns and he relents and says in a bored voice, "I'm fine. Thanks for asking."

"That's where they live – Evelyn and her daughter." Rachel taps the paper still in his hand.

He reads it again. It's the right neighborhood. He ran the street this morning, right past this house. "You sure?"

"Yep. You owe me."

"How did you…?"

"I pretended to be a gossip."

He grimaces imagining what that must've cost her, and consequently what it's going to cost him. "How…?"

"I was over at LPD Headquarters for something this morning, insinuated myself into a group of female officers gabbing outside on a smoke break. I know one of them so I stopped, bummed a cigarette. I said I had a friend whose husband was abusive and asked about getting her help and they started talking. People love to talk. It went round and round and I encouraged them. I knew sooner or later it would get personal. It always does. They all hate him – Evelyn's husband. Misogynist asshole. Quote."

Tim holds the paper delicately, like it might explode if he moves. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

Rachel plants a hand on her hip. "Whatever stupid thing comes into your head." She turns in a huff.

He stares at the address a minute longer then stuffs the paper in his pocket and follows her to her desk.

"Hey." She ignores him. "Smoking and gossiping. You are an undercover fucking ninja." That's a compliment from him and he's rewarded with a smile. He smiles back. "Sorry. I'm an asshole. Thank you."

"Don't thank me. Just don't do anything stupid and make me regret that cigarette anymore than I already do."

The last of the water sputters noisily into the coffee pot across the room. He doesn't notice. He's trying to think of something not stupid to do with an address for a woman he's committed adultery with and would like to again, and her abusive cop husband that he'd like to punish in a bloody way. Either option is stupid, at least by Rachel's definition.

"Do I smell coffee?" Art bulldozes through the doors and straight to the kitchenette, pours himself a mug. "Tim."

"Go surrender your weapon," says Rachel, looks pointedly at his holster and sees that it's already empty. "Never mind."

"I fucking hate this part of the job. I got to keep my rifle in the Rangers and I can't tell you how fucking many times I had to pull that trigger." He says the word, and it brings up again thoughts of the custom trigger work he did on the Glock and he frowns.

"The way I see it, you have a choice – either hold off on the custom work, or stop shooting people. I'll send you the link for the website where I ordered those parts for you when you were in the hospital. Better prices than the place you suggested."

"Are you a mutant?"

"Excuse me?"

"You don't live in a big mansion with a bald guy in a wheelchair?"

"What are you on about?"

"Nothing. I appreciate the website info. Thanks." He stops for some coffee on his way to see Art, blows across the top of the liquid and takes a careful sip. He exhales a string of expletives. "Fucking shit fucking weak-ass fucking..."

Rachel looks up. "What?"

"Was _not_ six."

* * *

 

He tells himself that continuing to run past her place isn't stupid. He'll just be keeping an eye on things now that he knows which house it is. He's invested and no one can tell him otherwise. He doesn't have a plan beyond that. He's just going to run by. That's all.

He gets home late, close to midnight after drinking with Art and Raylan. It's become a tradition – whoever shoots doesn't have to pay. Art thinks it reflects badly on him that his bureau has had the opportunity to build a tradition around shooting people, but he goes along with it. And now for Tim it's two nights in a row drunk, though not nearly as drunk as the previous evening, and he feels the need to do something productive to counter all the bad behavior. He changes into sweats and ties on his runners and sets out to reconnoiter the address that Rachel gave him. He's just going to check it out. That's all.

He knows it's bad before he reaches the end of her street. There's a rhythmic and familiar flickering of blue and red off the white clapboard house at the corner. It stirs in him every dreadful nightmare that he's imagined for her. There are twenty other houses on that block but he knows it's hers before he gets to the corner. He breaks into a sprint, barely slows down to dangle his badge on a chain at the uniform standing perimeter. He'll remember later that he didn't even bother to check the address before he charged in the open front door. The call must've just come in. Evelyn is still lying on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. Paramedics are checking vitals. She's completely naked, bared for the world to see. His eyes stop still at her breasts. He doesn't want to look anywhere else because there's blood and a red mark turning an eviler blue as he stares, spreading below the soft curve where the ribs give contrast beneath beautiful brown skin in a delicate tapering that he was aching for just minutes past. He can't bring himself to look at her eyes for fear of what he won't see. He looks for a breath from her chest but the paramedic closest stands and blocks his view and they lift her onto a gurney and cover her.

His eyes finally move to her face and he wants to cry. A new gash opened up on her cheek, eye swelling, lip bloodied.

"Hey. Who are you?"

There's another uniform standing before him in the hallway. Tim looks at him, then over the man's shoulder to the gathering of police in the kitchen. He knows immediately which one is the husband – the one with the cigarette and the shaking hands. He shoulders past the hall guard and yells something enraged and primal as he rushes into the room full of Lexington police and tackles the man responsible for the blood and bruises on the angel, slams him hard against the floor, sending chairs and table scurrying. His fist pounds into the hated face and he knows nothing else but the need to pay out in kind.

It takes three of them to pull him off. He fights his way free again and goes back for more. There's nothing but rage.

* * *

 

He sits on the curb watching Nelson with Cecilia Rose. He's actually got her smiling, tears dried. Tim can't work up enough energy to feel sorry for the little girl. He's spent everything he had and accomplished nothing.

Evelyn is on the way to the hospital. Her husband, face mashed and bleeding, is in handcuffs. Tim can see the back of his head through the rear window of the cruiser as it crawls carefully down the street weaving through the emergency vehicles. In his imagination he lines up the shot, takes it, knows he could make it count, wishes they hadn't confiscated his subcompact. The rage burns hot under the graying coals.

Rachel and Raylan are talking up the locals, calming nerves. He'll be getting off lightly, the angry Marshal. He's already been told as much by one of the uniforms. No charges, a slap on the wrist. No flies on him, just blood. They had trouble subduing him and the evidence of the struggle marks more than one of them, and him, shirt torn, more blood and bruises to add to the evening's tally. The officers on the scene are sympathetic, happy in fact that someone did what they all wanted to do but couldn't. But they couldn't stand by and let him beat a man to death either. The excuse is going around that Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson was involved in a shooting earlier and that explains why he lost it. Everyone present is latching onto the lie, grateful for it. It's bullshit.

"Christ, Tim," says Art. He makes the effort to get down to Tim's level, seats himself on the curb beside him. "Not that I blame you but…you sure made a mess of his face. Were you trying to punch through it?"

Tim looks down at his knuckles, flesh torn, a mix of blood types. The swelling has started by now and his fingers feel stiff when he clenches them into a fist. He has nothing to say.

"Rachel explained a bit to me on the way over. I remember that little girl from the hospital. Nelson befriended her. Didn't realize you had too. Or were you more friends with the mother? Evelyn, is it?" Art is stirring the coals, hoping to discover where the fire started. He must know. "I understand you helped her out a few times, sanctuary or something?"

 _Or something,_ thinks Tim and wishes it were as simple as sanctuary. It's where he should've left it. He wonders if he'd be as angry if he hadn't slept with her. He'd like to think he would be. He'll never know. He turns his head to look at Art, squints at the sun now coming up over his shoulder and then looks back at his hands. His head hurts. His hand hurts. His arm and shoulder hurt where he was grabbed from behind and held. He wishes his heart would hurt. He feels vacant and cold but for the rage.

Art takes a deep breath in when he finally tires of waiting for any reaction from Tim. "I told their chief that you were on administrative leave anyway because of the shooting today and that I'd keep you at home or on a desk for a bit until things calm down. He's pretending to be angry about it, talked about charging you but it won't come to that. Everyone knew about what was going on. Nobody did anything, so nobody's gonna start slinging mud for fear of slipping in it themselves."

He can't even bring himself to nod in response. He hears Art sigh, feels a heavy hand on his shoulder as his boss uses him to push himself back up to standing.

"Raylan's gonna take you home. He's the only one I can count on to shoot you if you try to go anywhere. I'll be by later. Get some sleep. I at least got an hour in before the phone rang."

Something crosses his mind, stirs him to speak and his voice is hoarse. "They have my gun. I paid good money for it."

Another sigh, this one with a bit of disgust in it. "I'll make sure it gets back to you."

* * *

 

Raylan hands him the confiscated handgun as they're walking to the car. "I'm supposed to hold on to this till we get to your place. But I gotta drive, so here, you hold it for me. Keep the safety full on, will you? Don't want you going around half-cocked."

Tim accepts the offering and the conditions, unclips his back holster and slides his weapon in snugly and holds it in both hands in his lap on the drive back to his house. There's nothing to shoot anyway.

"Rachel told me about Evelyn. Sorry you had to see that." Raylan has walked straight through to the kitchen ahead of Tim. Familiar with the layout of the house and what's in it, he goes for the cupboard with the alcohol, chooses the better bourbon and pours. He raises his glass and smiles without humor and says, "Here's to an interesting twenty-four hours."

"You think that was interesting?" Tim downs the shot in tandem with Raylan then takes the bottle from him and pours two more. He's still holding the bottle when he turns and trudges to the living room and slumps onto the sofa. "That was nothing." But that's not the truth. He's had nights of violence that surpass this one, more than he can count without an effort, but this one summoned up a rage unique, different than anything in his experience. He feels exhausted on the inside, agitated on the outside. He thinks about it while he sips his second drink. He's never been angry like that. Blind rage. Angry. Angry. Another gulp of whiskey. He tops up his drink and passes the bottle to Raylan. Such anger as he's only witnessed once before.

He sets down his glass and walks to the kitchen and opens the junk drawer and pulls out the mess of papers that is the case file for his abduction and beating. He's thinking about rage. He brings the pile back to the sofa and sifts through the pages until he comes to Sandoval's arrest history.

"Shit."

Raylan's watching and drinking. "What?"

"He's been charged…a few times, but never convicted. Victims won't testify. No other corroborating evidence. DA has to drop it."

"Who?"

"Sandoval."

"Charged with what?"

"Aggravated sexual assault."


	16. Chapter 16

The morning rolls by in a series of dreamscapes and skimmed thoughts. Sleep comes and goes. He's rising and sinking in a sea of semi-consciousness, a dead-man's float buoyed by images that seem real until he breaks the surface and their absurdity is revealed. Rachel is sitting naked on his sofa, hurt. The question of blame is there but he doesn't hear her ask it – _why did you do that?_ He tries to figure out what he's done but he can't focus on her, her voice ebbing and flowing like a weak radio signal, an SOS lost in the peaks and troughs of the storm he's in. He wants to help her but is thwarted by waves of ludicrous obstructions, things disconnected and unlikely. There's a fugitive in his bathroom and when he opens the door Cecilia Rose runs out. She's found one of his handguns and he's trying to get it from her but first he needs to take Tara to the airport and every light is amber then red and the streets are all dead ends. The frustration takes on a recordable decibel level. Then he's outside without actually getting there, on a snowy, sparsely treed mountainside, dark, picking up pink and purple and turquoise cards as the wind blows them, princesses and castles, farther down the slope into a kill zone between two rises. Fear shifts through him looking into the trough. He can hear a buddy from his platoon calling for support. There's gunfire. He's in civilian clothes, no gear, no helmet, no body armor. He can't find a rifle, a pistol, any weapon to use. He's unprepared, frantic, searching the landscape and his house is there and he searches each room. A car careens past the front, too fast for the neighborhood, pulls his thoughts to here and now and he twitches, the mountain gone but the urgency lingering. Another car, the radio loud, and a voice outside. Eyes flutter open unseeing, like the blind movement of moths against the light, close again. He's back in that room, in that chair. There's a soldier on a knee in the corner watching him. They went through RIP together, were assigned to the same battalion. He never did like him and he tells him that, and tells him too that he and his fire squad did everything they could to get him alive to the helo. He can hear it, the rotors batting at the thin mountain air. It's not far, he says again and again. This might not be a dream. He recalls the mission clearly. It's a memory, and it's real. Except the helo is always just over the next hill, the next, the next, each one steeper, the ground skittering and sliding underfoot and they drop him, urgency builds again. Another car moves past and he surfaces, wonders what time it is, what day it is. He thinks about coffee. A siren a block over, and Art walks into the office wearing a judge's gown and hands out ice cream to everyone. When he gets to Tim the ice cream is melting and dripping on his desk, on everything, on his hands and his shirt. He knocks a file onto the floor trying to wipe up and it lands with a thud and he opens his eyes and the bullpen is now his living room and Evelyn is on his sofa. Why is she here in his house now? The ceiling cracks and gapes and there's a hole and the rain is coming in, pouring in unnaturally and filling the room, rising past his waist, his chest. He tries to get her out but the water pushes him back toward the door. He twitches awake again when the water reaches his face.

There's a web hanging from the ceiling, turned dark gray with dirt and dust. There's another near the corner of the room, dangling and moving like a braided fast-rope dropped from a helicopter, swaying in a loose circle with the torque from unseen rotors. He watches it, not yet ready to be awake, and recalls another mission, too heavy a load and rope burn. He lifts his hands off the floor and checks them for blisters, rubs at the callouses that are there and knows it's just a memory.

He never looks up at his ceiling, not unless he's lying on the floor. Twice in two days now, and so it takes him a minute to remember what got him here this time. More drinking but a different excuse, different company. And that's where he is when he knows he's awake, stretched out on the carpet because Raylan has taken over the sofa. He turns his head and sees him snoring softly with his head propped at a neck-stiffening angle, his hat lifting and falling with his chest. There's an empty whiskey glass in an unaware hand.

It pieces together. They talked a while about women and then Raylan was asleep when Tim came back from a trip to the bathroom. He sat on the floor to gather up the report and put it back into some kind of order, wrote down on a separate sheet of paper the names of the officers who took the original statements from the victims of the sexual assaults in New Mexico. He wanted to stretch out for a minute. Just for a minute.

How long ago now? Tim checks his watch – almost three hours. He sits up cross-legged then rolls further forward onto his knees, bleary eyed, dry lips. Encore. He bends over and drops his forehead to the floor to stretch out his back and thinks about Muslim prayers.

Stiffly, he steps around the coffee table, around his report stacked messily on the floor, reaches down and carefully lifts the glass out of Raylan's hand then picks up his own from the table and carries them to the kitchen. He sets the glasses in the sink, puts the bottle of bourbon with the bare inch of amber liquid sitting accusingly in the bottom back into the cupboard, makes a pot of coffee and some toast, gets out peanut butter and jam and spreads it on thickly. He's hungry.

He tiptoes up the stairs to the bathroom with his breakfast, eating and dropping crumbs as he goes. He does a proper job washing the gashes on his knuckles, stopping before wrapping them to finish his last bite of toast, sip some more coffee. He hears the door open downstairs and expects it's Art come to talk and it is. He listens, head turned and tilted. Two male voices, held soft – Art, and he's woken Raylan. They probably think he's sleeping. He turns on the tap and makes some noise, brushes his teeth, catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, stops brushing and stares at his reflection. He remembers the dream with Rachel and wonders how to interpret that one. He drops his head and spits. Maybe he's looking for the why of it but not certain he wants to hear the answer. In a flash of honesty he knows that it's guilt. He should never have encouraged Evelyn to find refuge here. He should never have crossed that small distance between them.

The anger was everything last night, dominating the event, and this morning there's something of it still lingering, but cooled. If he had a rifle and an opportunity he'd do what he couldn't last night. Wouldn't think twice about it. But it would be overkill in every sense and a bandaid for what ails him. It would help with the anger, nothing else. He thinks about his part in it and he's not proud. Learn and move on.

In that moment he realizes that the abusive asshole is genetically not likely to be Cecilia Rose's daddy. He's white-white, light haired. His eyes squeeze tight together, shutting out the sight of the hypocrite in the mirror.

He doesn't feel up to facing Art yet so he has a shower to procrastinate while he mops up the mess that is his feelings. The water stings the injured hand and he tells himself he deserves it. He sits after drying off and wraps his knuckles with care, like he might be readying for a boxing match. He's got a clearer head when he finally shows his face downstairs. The bubble that was the fantasy has burst and he knows he won't be allowed to see her again. Not that it would stop him if he wanted to, but he doesn't want to and that doesn't upset him the way he thinks it should. He thinks again about the dream with Rachel.

Art looks tired. Tim feels bad for him, but not for Raylan. Raylan has done things as stupid or worse and dragged Tim into all-nighters more epic than this one. It's a kind of pay-it-forward ledger they've got going between them and Tim's still in the black, even after last night. Art and Raylan have helped themselves to coffee and Raylan has dug out a box of cereal that Tim didn't know he had. He wonders what the best-by date is on it, and on the milk that Raylan is liberally pouring into the bowl. Apparently it's edible. Raylan isn't gagging.

Art is unusually quiet sitting watching him, sipping at his coffee and not looking to be in a hurry to get to anything, neither a point nor a destination. Tim watching Raylan; Art watching Tim. No one's talking. Tim has plenty of practice with silence and puts his experience to good use hoping to get a peek at Art's mood before he opens his mouth to make the requests of him that he needs to.

"Thanks for the coffee," Art says eventually. He held out for a good while.

The opening statement prompts Tim to remember his own empty mug and he steps across the room and fills it and tops up Art's too and Raylan's. He sets the empty pot back and turns off the burner and leans against the counter and waits.

Raylan nods a thanks, his mouth full. He meticulously works to the bottom of the bowl, picks it up and drinks to finish off the milk. He's not a patient man, so he ends the silent contest. "Since Art's too tired to talk, I guess I get to break the good news. It's official," he says, turning in the chair to face Tim. "No charges. Somebody likes you." He points straight up.

Tim sits down with them then still waiting on Art to say something more so he can get a picture of his boss's frame of mind.

Art obliges him. "You should be aware though that there is the possibility of a civil suit. I don't know what kind of man he is, but if I did what he did I'd feel I deserved what I got and leave it at that."

"I doubt he thinks he deserves any of it, Art," says Raylan, "not since he's the kind of guy who feels entitled to do that to his wife."

"Yeah, you've got a point. Best to anticipate some legal action." Art directs the last bit at Tim, and he sounds sorry to have to say it.

Tim takes that as a good sign. "I'll deal with that when it happens," he says. "Anybody know a good lawyer?" It's a joke; they're surrounded by lawyers daily. There's more than one that owes him a favor.

"Go talk to Everton," says Art. "He'd be my choice. Get some advice now."

"Alright, I'll do that."

Coffee gets everyone's attention for the moment, and then Tim starts in on his requests. "Am I allowed in the office today?"

"Depends on why."

"I was hoping to do some database digging. I think I might've found a lead. I think."

Art blinks. "On the Sandoval thing?"

He nods.

Art perks up a bit, happy not to have to rehash the night. "What'd you find?"

His report is still on the floor in the living room. He calls it 'his report' now and in every respect that's what it is. He's woken this morning with a sense that he can now take full ownership of that future. It's a gift of purpose, a path to follow. And no one else has the means or the opportunity or the will. Not like he does. He moves quickly to get it and returns at a slow walk, flipping through the papers. He chooses one and slides it across the table upside down for Art to read – Sandoval's arrest history. "Besides the usual drug-dealing asshole related charges, he's been brought in on three separate occasions for aggravated sexual assault."

Both Raylan and Art peer at it, curious, though Art's read the entire report through at least once and Raylan heard the highlights from Tim earlier, some time before the sun came up and they were both too tired to take the discussion any further.

Art leans back after reading the indicated lines, rubs his eyes and says, "So?" Exhausted eloquence.

"So, I think the guys that grabbed me knew one of the girls. I think that's what this is all about. And I might be able to track them down from there."

"Why would you think that when he's turning state's evidence? Don't you think that's a more likely reason to have enemies that would risk kidnapping a Federal Marshal?"

Tim mimics Art, sits back in his chair. He considers his answer. "Yeah, it is the more likely reason. Not getting us very far though, is it." He rubs a finger across the bandages on his right hand. "Do you have any idea how angry I was last night?"

Art has to get a dig in. He says, "I think, Tim, that all of Lexington knows."

The tilt of the head is not cocky, it's a concession. His display last night did no good for anyone but himself, and even then. "They were angry like that," he says. "It wasn't business. It wasn't like that."

"You sure?"

He's knocked back into memories when he tries to form the argument. He recalls vividly the feel of the chair, wet underneath him with piss because he'd long past had to let that go. Tell that to Hardy. He remembers a foot stopping the metal pipe from rolling away from him again, a hand reaching down to pick it up. Angry Face. The big guy of the trio, the one with the fist that he now knows intimately, reaching out and taking hold of the other end of the pipe, a momentary tug-o-war. "I'll do it." A growl, not of submission but acceptance of good judgment, and Angry Face releasing his grip and moving backward against the wall, moving like an aggressive animal on a very short leash. "Just find out where he is."

It's like he's there again, and the emotions that he thought had been dealt with, that he thought he'd absorbed leaving only a drop of the anger as reminder, are an ocean and he's lost in them. He brings up both hands quickly and presses his fingers hard into his eyes, stands and walks away from Art and Raylan on the pretense of making more coffee. He counts out the scoops deliberately, shaking but only for his notice, only to show him his vulnerability again. The cold creeps out from his memories and infects his limbs. His fingers are ice.

"He's sure, Art." Raylan answers for him and for once he's grateful.

* * *

 

"I understand you want to get on it, but can you wait a day – a show of propriety for my sake?"

"I can wait a day. It's been months. What's a day?"

It's how he and Art left it and it's okay with him. But now he's home alone and bored, overtired and fidgety. He pays some bills, vacuums, cleans the kitchen, organizes the toolbox he keeps specifically for his guns, organizes his kitchen cupboards and throws out all the packages with dead best-by dates including the remains of Raylan's cereal box. He cleans out his fridge too. He cleans the bathroom. He opens the back door and looks at the mess that is spring, turns his back on the moldy leaves and lets the screen door close with a significant bang. The nervous energy is depleted by the time Rachel shows up at the door. He's reminded again of Cecilia Rose when he sees her.

"Howdy," he says.

"Howdy." She repeats it back not as a greeting but in disdain for the choice of word coming from his mouth. "Are you drinking again?"

It's a fair question – it's after five – but he knows she's being critical when she asks like that. It's a left jab. "Why, you thirsty?"

"Yes. That cigarette yesterday has left a bad taste in my mouth that won't go away."

Another left jab. He's wary about a right cross. "If you've come here to beat me up about all this, you're too late. I've already done the job."

"Don't you want to know how she's doing?"

There's the right cross. He should've seen it coming. Evelyn. He doesn't belong near angels. He huffs, won't look at her. "You can just turn around and walk back out that door if that's the way you're gonna be."

He moves past her and opens the front door for her like a true gentleman would, but she doesn't budge. She reaches down and gently lifts up his right hand to inspect the bandages.

"She's going to be all right. They were worried she'd broken something serious but it's just a rib and her wrist. And a concussion."

He still won't look at her, checks out her shoes. "And the asshole? The one who took time to put clothes and the concerned-husband look on while he waited for the ambulance to show up?"

She lets go of his hand and leans her back on the hall wall. "He'll live. He's on administrative leave until they formalize charges."

"Wonderful. He and I can go drinking together."

"He's given a statement."

"A confession?"

"Yes."

"Then he should be in lock-up waiting on an arraignment."

Rachel doesn't have anything to say to the truth. She shrugs. "They said you scared him."

"Scared him? How?"

"He didn't think anyone knew."

"What an asshole."

"No shit." She reaches out to him again, pokes his stomach. "Are you hungry. Feel like pizza?"

"What is it with you and pizza?"

"I like pizza."

"I noticed. Yeah, sure. There's nothing here to eat."

That brings a smile to her face. "Raylan said all you had in the place was a box of stale cereal."

He picks up a hoodie from the floor where he dumped it in the early hours of the morning. "There was toast and peanut butter sitting on the counter. He's just blind."

"Now be nice."

"You be nice. I made him coffee and let him drink my good bourbon." There's blood on the front of the sweatshirt and he wipes at it then huffs and tosses it back on the floor, runs upstairs and comes back down wearing a clean one.

He holds the door open a second time and she walks through it, says as she passes him, "I wish I could've gotten a punch in."

"You had the address."

"I should've gone up there earlier and kicked him in the nuts."

"Why didn't you? Could've saved me a lot of trouble."

She doesn't have an answer for him.


	17. Chapter 17

He has a shadow.

He ignored every general invitation for lunch and snuck out by himself when no one was paying attention. So he thought. But he's aware that someone is following him. He stops on the sidewalk and turns abruptly, hand over his holster.

"Nelson, what're you doing?"

"I need to talk to you."

"So, talk."

"Out here?"

He appreciates Nelson's particular strengths, the unique talents that he brings to the job – really, he does – but the man frustrates the hell out of him. "Bless Nelson. He's an old soul." That's what the clerk downstairs says, the one with the motherly smile for all the young officers and deputies, the one with the paper always open to the horoscope page. He disagrees with her assessment; he sees Nelson as a first-timer peeking wide-eyed at the world and looking under every rock expecting Easter eggs. He wants to smack some sense into him, see if he can't at least knock him hard enough to jumpstart him into a second round through life. It's an earnest face looking at him. Tim drops his head then rolls it in the direction he was walking, his body following. He waves Nelson onward.

"I was just going for a sandwich. C'mon." He slouches, stuffs his hands in his pockets, careful of the new scabs formed on his right knuckles, and resigns himself to company he doesn't want. "So, what's up?"

"I was…" Nelson eyes the two people walking toward them, looks behind him, side to side. "I was talking to a friend in LPD." It's almost a whisper.

"Uh-huh."

"Apparently the guy you punched out, Evelyn's husband…"

There's a long pause, so Tim pushes. "Uh-huh."

"His partner…" Nelson looks around him again, a pantomime of situational awareness.

"Uh-huh."

"He and another guy, they want to get even with you."

Nelson's voice rises at the end of the sentence turning the statement into a question, and Tim questions it too. "Seriously? They want to get _even_ with me? Fuck. The way I see it, I'd have to do a lot more damage to Evelyn's husband in order for there to be any talk of being _even._ That's just fucking stupid." He can't help it, he snorts. "What the fuck?"

"Yeah, well, my friend says they're the only ones. Most of the guys are quietly cheering what you did – and all the women too...I guess."

Tim starts laughing but there's a sharpened edge to it. "I guess."

"I don't think this is funny. Aren't you worried?"

"Nope. I'm hungry though." They've arrived at the sandwich shop and Tim is holding the door open, waiting. He gives Nelson a meaningful look, finally says, "In. Food."

By the time he's halfway through his sandwich and his iced tea he finds he's not minding the company. Nelson is entertaining today, and full of information about the asshole.

"So these two guys who supposedly have it in for me, they work with..."

"Nick Ogden."

"That's his name?"

"Yeah, didn't you know?"

Tim takes another bite of his sandwich and shakes his head. No, he didn't know. He didn't know Evelyn's last name. He never asked. She never said. Looking back, he realizes it was her way of preventing him from confronting her husband. She's a cop's wife; she understands. Guns and violence and no good ending. He tries out the name – Evelyn Ogden. It doesn't fit her somehow. But then who's he trying to kid? He didn't really know her enough to say one way or the other.

"What department is he in?"

"Personal Crimes, Homicide."

"Thankfully not Special Victims. That'd be ironic." He finishes his lunch, wipes his hands on his jeans and then crosses his arms. The body language is loud. "Fucking idiots. Don't they have something better to do? Maybe I'll give them a homicide to detect, keep them busy so they can't bother me."

"I think you should just steer clear of them, except the uniforms. I think you're okay with them."

"How will I know them to steer clear of them if they're not in uniform?"

"Uh…"

"Fuck, Nelson, I'm messing with you. You can spot a cop a mile away. Look out, here comes the po-po." He starts laughing again, a more honest laugh, memories of a bar brawl in Tacoma, the comedy of a drunken getaway attempt with his platoon buddies. He can't remember who yelled it out but it killed their escape, all of them buckled over in hysterics. They're good memories, tinged with something bitter. They never fail to bring up a longing, and a laugh.

"I really think you should be taking this more seriously."

"And I think you need to chill. Besides you're not even supposed to be talking to me. I'm not here, remember? Art said."

"I know. That's why I followed you out a couple of minutes after you left. I've been waiting all morning for an opportunity to warn you."

Art made the announcement to the bullpen first thing, standing in front of Tim's desk where Tim was, at that moment, sitting in plain view of everyone present.

"Alright kids, listen up. Tim will not be in again today. LPD is still nursing their wounded pride so I have to make an official show of scolding him." He turned to him then and wagged a finger. "Bad, Tim. Bad." Then to the rest of the staff he said, "So we'll just have to do without him. He'll be back in next week when he's properly repentant. Everyone got that?"

A round of chuckles and nodding heads and some smart ass called out, "What if there's a hostage situation?"

"Then you say, 'Tim, please get your rifle and follow me.' Any other stupid questions?"

More chuckles. Everyone played it up all morning – talking about him loudly when they passed his desk, as if he weren't there. He figures Nelson is the only one who took Art seriously. Might as well take advantage of it. "You should probably get back," he says, "before Art suspects you're with me."

"Yeah, you're right." And Nelson rushes off, worried that Art might catch him conversing with the excommunicated. 

Tim stops to pick up a coffee, maybe one for Rachel too. He arrives back at the courthouse well after Nelson, sets a coffee and an obscenely decadent bakery-made doughnut on Rachel's desk. She stares at it uncertainly. He walks backward toward his end of the bullpen watching her reaction, bumps into Raylan who's passing by on his way out.

"What the hell?" Raylan turns in a circle, pretending not to see Tim. "I always reckoned this place was haunted. Now I'm certain."

Tim flips him the finger, still walking backward, sits at his desk and picks up a paperclip and throws it at him, pings it off his hat.

"Poltergeist," says Rachel. "One just left me a…" She's still gauging the treat on her desk. "I don't know what to call this."

"I think you'd call that 'bad for you.' Let me take it off your hands."

Raylan reaches for it and she whips a leather sap from her drawer and threatens his fingers with it, a controlled snap, and he backs off with a "My, my, possessive about your treats."

"Damn straight. That has chocolate on it." She picks up the doughnut and sniffs, then nibbles, then takes an unladylike bite and makes a satisfied sound. "Oh my God, that's good." She puts down her pen and picks up her fresh coffee in her other hand and walks over and sits on the corner of Tim's desk, the first to blatantly ignore Art's announcement.

"So?"

"So?"

"Nothing yet?"

He shakes his head.

"Can I make a suggestion?"

"Sure."

"Try Facebook."

"Facebook?"

"I realize that you are above social media, but most people put their whole lives out there. Look up your victims and see what you get."

"I hate Facebook."

Rachel stands and starts walking away, licking her fingers.

"Hey," he says, calling her back. He waits until she's close enough to keep their conversation private. "How's Evelyn doing? Do you know?"

"She's staying with friends. Her mother passed away last night."

"So she can go back to South Carolina now. She should, anyway."

"Is that where she's from? Would you be sorry if she left?"

He can't say 'yes.' It'd be a lie. "No. It'll be better for her, and I don't think I could handle losing at princess match-up one more time. I might have to shoot something if it came to that."

"She whooped your ass that bad, huh?"

He shrugs. "I was down when she kicked me."

Rachel stalls at his desk, observing. He won't give her anything, eyes back on his computer screen.

"Open a Facebook account," she says, "and I'll send you a friend request."

"Fuck off. I'm not opening a Facebook account. And friends are overrated."

"Only to assholes."

"I said fuck off."

"Okay, asshole."

"How's your doughnut?"

"Awesome."

* * *

 

"So Hardy quit?"

"That's an excellent summary of the situation, Raylan."

"What's your problem, Art?"

"You are just a bit too goddamn happy about all this. I get the impression you're pleased he's quit."

"Well, actually…"

Raylan looks to Tim for support but Tim's distracted. He was hoping to find a target today, something to get him closer to the life that he's always imagined for himself, the one where nobody hurts him without some kind of holy hellfire retribution. It's not coming fast enough. Now that he has the tiniest of trails to follow, he's impatient.

Retribution. That word may have to go on his gravestone. Or maybe he might appeal to the literary crowd and chisel in the phrase 'pride and extreme prejudice.' That'd get a laugh from someone walking through the cemetery.

Extreme prejudice in the act of retribution. It's been on his mind every day since he woke up to a beep and a drip. The only time he wasn't thinking about it was when he was naked with Evelyn. And even then, outside that fragment of minutes where time has no hand, where sensation subjugates thought, he could not fail to notice the marks on her, a mirror of his, and his hatred for the world was amplified, a peak on an already high plateau.

He's still not certain of his feelings for Evelyn. He'll never sort that out. It's Friday now, two full days since the incident at her house, a couple more since he invited her into his bedroom. Why did she accept that invitation? He hopes it wasn't fear. It wasn't, he tells himself. It was more complicated than one thing. He won't call it a one-night stand either, not in his own thoughts and not aloud. He's had plenty of those – bar nights off base when something as normal as dating just didn't make sense – but this wasn't that. This was beyond his realm of comprehension.

His thoughts are storm-water messy, further muddied by the current circumstances – Art deciding to go for a drink after work on the excuse that it was a 'helluva week.' It's not that he doesn't want a drink; it's where they're drinking that bothers him. Art chose the bar, and now here they are at The Chase. They're being served by Zoe and she leads his gaze like a dog on a leash. When he can wrangle his mind away from thoughts of retribution he invariably finds his eyes following her dance through the tables of patrons.

She catches him looking and smiles. Her invitation comes back to him – she's free Saturday, tomorrow night. He thinks about the phone number still carefully folded in his wallet.

"Tim, stop your sexual fantasies and back me up here. Hardy. Quitting." Raylan gestures toward Art, looks back at Tim expectantly.

"He quit?"

"Oh, for… Get your mind off the girl."

Art is diverted from Hardy. "What girl? Tell me you're not mooning over that cop's wife, 'cause if you are…"

"No, Art, that girl." And Raylan tips his head, Stetson and all, in the direction of the bar.

Tim glares at him.

"That's for not backing me up with Hardy," says Raylan, grinning while Tim squirms.

"Fine. I'm not sorry he quit. Is that what you want to hear? I'd have serious reservations about riding with him again."

"There. See, Art. It's not just me," says Raylan.

Art has his head turned away, checking out the waitress. "She's cute."

Tim reaches a hand out and snaps his fingers loudly in front of Art's face, says, "Hardy," trying to get the conversation back to something he's comfortable with. Too loudly. Zoe hears the international call for service and turns their way.

Art waves to her.

Tim lets go with a string of 'fucks', not loud enough to be heard over the music.

"You should ask her out," says Art. "Unless she's a cop's wife, then don't."

She's at the table. "You boys need another round?"

"I was not snapping my fingers at you," says Tim.

"That would be rude," says Raylan. "But while you're here, yes, Miss Zoe, we could definitely use another round."

The smile on Art's face isn't for the beer. "Actually – while you're here – we're hoping you could do us a favor."

"What's that?"

"First, are you married or dating anyone in law enforcement?"

"That's kinda personal."

"Just answer the question, young lady."

"Well, aren't you cheeky." She grins, good-natured, playing along, holds up a hand like she's swearing on a bible. "Not currently married to or dating anyone in law enforcement." She drops the hand.  "Okay?"

"Okay."

"Why?"

"Because we're hoping you'll put this boy out of his misery and give him your phone number."

"He already has it, Art. You're a few days behind the action." Raylan's smile is somehow worse than Art's. "And she's free tomorrow night if I remember correctly."

"Actually, I'm not. Sorry," she says to Tim, "but I've made plans." She flicks Tim on the shoulder and says to Art, "He took too long to call," then shakes her head sadly, not looking the least bit annoyed.

Tim wonders how it's possible she can be so affable faced with this. He'd shoot both Art and Raylan if it were legal.

"Another round will have to do then," says Art. "Not much of a consolation prize really. Not compared to what the winner got."

He gives Tim a pointed look and all Tim can think to say is, "I'm an idiot. Just ask them." He waves humbly at his drinking buddies. He's used the line before but not with Zoe and it makes her smile. It makes him feel like shit. The statement applies to more than just a missed date.

* * *

 

Most calendar weeks end on a Saturday. He's thinking he'll end this one early, on a Friday. It would be nice to put the week behind him, start off fresh tomorrow. It's just past eight when he gets home from the bar and he makes a conscious decision not to drink any more tonight. He makes himself promise. He flips through the channels looking for a distraction, settles on an action movie that he's seen twice already. It's appropriately mindless. The lack of a bottle in his hand gets him fidgeting and he goes to the kitchen and opens the fridge hoping for some snacks to keep his mind off alcohol, but there's just beer and something growing. It _has_ been a helluva week. He fishes through the cupboards and tries to remember the last time he did a proper grocery shop, tries to push his mind past the last five days without dwelling on anything. He can't, gives up and goes back to the living room. He flops on the couch and watches the movie until the next commercial break then goes to the fridge once more and eyes the beer, shuts the door again with a bit too much force. After the third aimless tour of his main floor he admits he's tired, both emotionally and physically, buzzing, agitated. He needs alcohol to bring him down. But he promised. He can't focus on anything and he doesn't feel like going to bed. A run is the best idea he can come up with.

At the bottom of the driveway he stops, hands on his hips. A crossroads has appeared right outside his door. He looks right down the road and beyond where it leads to North Broadway and Loudon and it's like staring back at the week. He looks left and there's the old route, the one that beat him soundly not too long ago. He figures if he goes right he's just playing the devil's hand again, so he goes left and heads south hoping it'll bring him back around.

An hour later he's home, sweaty and satisfied. He's conquered it. He hasn't run that far successfully since before his abduction. He grins for himself, drops and does thirty pushups then rolls onto his back on the cold grass, still grinning. His lungs don't complain, only a dull ache in the knee. He stretches then goes inside and has a shower and heads to a grocery store that's open all night.

Fresh food in the fridge, the cupboards stocked, and residual endorphins in his system from the run, he's feeling all right. He paces the main floor once more then grabs his keys and walks outside and gets into his truck. He pulls up in front of The Chase, walks in and stops in the entrance to look for his waitress. She's at the machine behind the bar punching in an order, alone. He makes his way toward her, pushing through the crowd. He has to yell over the music and the talking. "Hey."

She startles, not expecting someone behind her in the employee-only zone. "Hey," she says back. "Did you forget something?"

"Are you seriously busy tomorrow night?"

She turns back and taps in two more items to finish the order, then turns again to face him. "Did you lose my phone number or something?"

"No." He opens his wallet and pulls out the slip with her digits on it. "It's just been…a helluva week."

"Work?"

"Partially."

"Well, I've made plans with my girlfriends tomorrow. I won't break my date with them for you. I hate it when they do it to me for some guy they don't even know yet, so I won't do it to them."

"Fair enough. You free during the day?"

She tilts her head and smiles. "Maybe."

"I go for a run in the mornings, then to the range. If you're free after that I'll buy you lunch."

"Lunch sounds nice." She steps closer so they don't have to yell as loud. "I'd go running with you but something tells me you go early and fast."

"I can run later, and slower. I'll make you earn your lunch though."

"Alright. It's a date, as long as you promise not to lap me."

"I promise. We won't run a circuit."

"Alright then."

"I'll call you when I'm ready to head out."

"Not too early. I won't be outta here for another three hours."

She smiles just for him one more time then slips past to pick up a tray of beer waiting on the counter. He watches her go and in the grace of a moment's clarity he remembers why he likes this bar.

Back in his driveway he puts the truck in park, turns off the engine, looks at the house. He phones Raylan. "You feel like closing a bar tonight?"

"Always."

"I was gonna head back to The Chase." He doesn't tell him it'll be his third time tonight.

"Sounds good."

"Hey, Raylan."

"What?"

"Did Nelson tell you about…?"

"The two idiots from LPD who intend a little tit-for-tat?"

"Yeah."

"I'd like to be there when they try. Somehow I don't think it would be a good idea to sneak up on you right now. You're twitchy since those assholes got you. Maybe I should give them fair warning. I'd hate to see one of them end up hurt." There's a pause and Tim wonders if Raylan has hung up, but he hasn't – he's holding out for comic effect. He says, "On the other hand…" then ends the call without another word, typical of their phone conversations.

Tim sits a minute looking at the dark lane beside his house and wonders that his situational awareness, a skill drilled into him in the Regiment, could've softened enough that they were able to catch him off-guard here, on his own turf. Until Raylan's comment he hadn't thought about how intense he'd become about it again. Raylan's apparently noticed.

He turns the key, turns over the engine, backs out of the driveway.

Raylan is waiting for him. He's snagged two free stools at the bar. Tim settles in and looks at the jug of beer waiting, two glasses poured. He raises his and Raylan says, "To Friday and beer," and they both take a mouthful. So much for promises.

They're the last to pay and leave, closing out the bar. Tim watches Raylan drive away then waits around to walk Zoe home.


	18. Chapter 18

It was a good idea to end the week on Friday. Saturday is shaping up to be a fine day. The sun is out and warming. His showing at the range earns him a slap on the back from the owner and a few of the regulars, and a grin from his own face. No stiffness, no pain – he's back in form. He arrives at the corner where he and Zoe arranged to meet – he's early as always – and she's waiting for him, and not in matching designer running clothes. The shorts are nice, the t-shirt and hoodie haggard, hair thrown haphazardly into an elastic, most of it anyway, and no make-up. It's as if she and her bed have only recently parted company. He has to work hard to stop imagining her still in it, soft, warm. He can hear Raylan saying, "Down boy." And see the smirk to go with it. He grins.

She misinterprets the smile and says, "I figure if you can put up with me looking like this then it's a good start." And then she yawns.

His smile widens. "You look good in 'just-woke-up.' I like it."

He runs till she starts lagging, then they have a casual lunch at a pub down the street from her apartment, still in their sweats, drink lots of coffee and talk about their lives from this Saturday backwards.

When it's his turn to confess his past and he mentions his first career, she sits back and frowns. "Figures," she says.

He's seen that look before, can't tell if it's a deal-breaker though, so he plays it cool, like her reaction couldn't possibly have anything to do with the fact that he was in a war, and now he's not, and all that implies. "What?"

"My daddy was army. Could you tell somehow?" She lifts her shirt and smells it. "Does it leave an odor, some kinda signal to its own kind?"

"Was? He out?"

"He got out in his thirties. He owns the hardware store on Limestone."

"Yeah, I know it."

"He'll laugh at me if I bring you home."

"Explains why you were early."

She laughs at that. "I swear he still marches. It never leaves you, does it?"

"No, not really."

He walks her home again and books another date before she kisses him on the cheek and rushes off to shower for her girls' evening. It's oddly old-fashioned, and oddly, he doesn't mind. The day feels scripted and normal and he speculates that this is what life is supposed to be like according to some unrealistic ideal that he might've read about and scoffed at only a year ago. He wants desperately to live that ideal, to have the same feelings the next time he sees her. It's a bitter desperation.

* * *

 

He opens a beer after his shower and sits at his laptop, starts with the first name on his list of sexual assault victims, types it into the Google search bar. The top page of results has four hits for Facebook, and the rest for a doctor in New York who apparently likes to publish her latest thoughts online. One of the Facebook links looks like his victim. He bookmarks the page and goes to the next name, and the next. He spends the remainder of his first beer following the trails and comes to dead ends on all three. The pages aren't public. He gets a second beer and types in 'Facebook' and hits the 'Sign Up' link on the site and reads everything he can about it. He's even less inclined to open an account twenty minutes later when he's waded through everything there is to know about social media security. He empties the bottle and shuts his computer. Forty minutes after that he's standing at the entrance of Rachel's apartment building with his computer in a rucksack, his phone in one hand and a pizza box in the other, a six pack of her favorite lager on the ground at his feet.

"Hey," he says when she answers. "I need some help. I brought some advanced payment."

She buzzes him in.

* * *

 

"No, I'm not opening a Facebook account."

"Tim…"

"Seriously. Didn't you see where some fucking pro-ISIS hackers got a hold of a bunch of military personnel social media whatever-the-fuck data and posted a list of names and addresses with the invitation to kill on sight? No fucking way I'm putting myself out there. That's just..."

He's getting worked up. Rachel puts a hand on his arm to stop the rant, uses her other hand to pass him his beer.

"Chill. Have a drink. I don't want you shooting my laptop."

He gives her a head tilt with attitude.

She snaps her fingers in his face and he thinks about Zoe.

"I meant…" – Rachel wags her head like a pro – "…we should sign up as a fake person and send a friend request."

"Why the fuck would anyone accept a friend request from someone they don't know?"

"Because people want to win the friend race."

"The what?"

She stands up to get another slice, says over her shoulder. "You wouldn't even get a participation trophy."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Hm."

* * *

 

"How about pissedoffasshole?"

They're laughing, trying to come up with a hotmail account name that isn't taken.

"No luck."

"Shit, there's another one out there?"

"Apparently lots. They're suggesting pissedoffasshole207."

"207? Jesus. Nah, I hate being in a crowd. How about dropitassholeorIwillshoot?"

"That one's available."

"Now that surprises me. I figured Raylan would've taken it."

Rachel is having trouble giggling with a mouthful of pizza. A bit of pepperoni escapes. She wipes it up with a finger, covers her mouth with a hand to say, "Now we need a name."

"Dudley Do-right."

"It has to be believable as someone they might know."

It shoots out. "Katelyn Dougherty."

Rachel turns in her seat to get a good view of Tim's face, says, "Where did that come from?"

"Girl I tried to kiss in public school. Fourth grade. She made fun of me."

"Aw."

"Bitch."

They're laughing again.

* * *

 

"Wait. Stop. Back up."

They've been accepted as friends by two of the girls. Tim is stunned at how quickly they responded; Rachel just huffs at his ignorance of people. A quick message follows: "Where do I know you from? The name is so familiar." Or something close. Rachel has made up a line to explain a feeble connection, one for each girl based on a snippet of information from what's publicly accessible on their profiles. It doesn't take much and now they're scrolling through old posts when Tim stops her.

"Fuck. That's him." He doesn't have to say it – it's obvious in the stillness, the change in temperature in the room, his breathing. "That's him."

"You're sure?"

He nods, tight and quick, jaw tensed. "Can we get her address or something?"

"Probably. A phone number at least. Tim…" Rachel points to the photo, the tag underneath. "It's her father." He doesn't respond. He's scribbling the beginnings of a solid trail into his notebook – a phone number for the daughter. Rachel keeps scrolling as he stands and puts on his jacket. "Derek Hutter."

"What?"

"That's his name. It's tagged on another photo." She twists around and sees him heading for the door. "Where are you going?"

"The office. Gonna get an address."

"Then what?"

"I dunno."

"Tim, they'll know you've looked him up. Guaranteed you'll be on the list of suspects when they make the connection to Sandoval. They have access to your login history and activities."

"I'm so fucking close." He reaches for the door handle, stops. "What do you want me to do? I don't care if they find out. I need to meet this guy. On my terms."

"Art gave you the file, didn't he?"

He hangs his head and brings up his hands and rubs his eyes.

"Tim, he put her in a wheelchair." Rachel accents her words with her hand gesturing harshly to another photo, a succinct reminder of the evil that is Sandoval.

"I know." The words are hot and loud. "He shoved her out of a moving car." He reins himself in, says more quietly, "I read the fucking report." They're together in a silence full with uncertainty and emotion, grief, hurt, violence and injustice. Tim reaches for the door handle a second time but his hand falls short of its goal. "And you think that makes it okay? Did you see what they did to me?"

"Yes, I saw what they did to you. Jesus, Tim, I was at the hospital minutes after they brought you in. Art cried. Did you know that?"

He didn't know that.

"Sometimes still, I look at you and that's all I see."

"I'm sorry it was you."

"I'm not. I'm not, okay?"

He can't look at her, head down again. "I gotta do this, or I'll never… I can't let this…" He can't finish, at a loss. It's deeper than he's had to go since he gave up warzones as a hobby. It's bitter desperation again. "What do you want me to do?"

Rachel sighs loudly, stands and gets her jacket and bag and pushes him ahead of her out into the hall. "C'mon. I'm pretty sure someone at LPD will be happy to do you a favor if you ask."

"A favor for what?"

"For giving Detective Ogden a black eye."

"Seriously?"

"Mm-hm."

Tim gives her the victory sign, though his voice is still desperate. "I gave him two."

"And what're you going to do to Derek Hutter when you find him?"

"I told you, I dunno yet."

"Tim…"

"Don't go there. I'm not discussing this with anyone who wasn't in that fucking room with me. You got that?"

"Loud and clear." He's marching down the hall to the elevator. She catches up, grabs his sleeve and pulls him around to face her. "Just keep in mind the possible collateral damage while you're on your warpath."

* * *

 

The night sergeant is a big woman. She holds out her hand when Rachel introduces Tim, takes his when he offers it and admires the broken skin on the knuckles. "Aw, hon, those knuckles look sore. Of course, not as sore as Ogden's face." She cackles.

Tim has an address when he drops Rachel back at her apartment. "Thanks," he says. "I appreciate your help."

"Tim…"

His look is a warning.

"Could you at least let me know what you plan on doing?"

"So you can get in trouble too? No way."

She fires the last shot. "I'll visit you in the hospital, but you're on your own in prison."

* * *

 

There's a car he doesn't recognize parked on the street on his block. He drives past it, not slowing down, only eyes moving in its direction. He turns up the radio. When he pulls into his driveway he sits a moment in his truck with the engine running, head moving with the song's rhythm, lips making up words as he pretends to sing along. He checks that the magazine in his subcompact is full, chambers a round and decocks it, slips it into his left jacket pocket. He lets the song finish, taking the time to let his gaze wander the area, turns off the engine when the commercial break interrupts, steps out, locks up. He stuffs both hands in his pockets and walks to the side entrance.

They're waiting for him. He can see too much shadow by the neighbor's hedge along the side of the backyard to his left. He figures the second man will appear to his right, between him and escape, out from hiding somewhere in the front. He pulls his house keys out of his pocket with his right hand, casual, and that's when they show themselves, well choreographed. He gives them a facetious mental applause. Idiots. Maybe they don't know that he was attacked here before.

He pretends not to see the man in the yard, turns his back to him and watches the one walking up beside his truck.

"Stop right there," he says.

"Or what?"

He can hear the one behind him approaching, steady footfalls on the grass. It's hard to sneak up on your prey when he already knows you're coming.

"Or I'll start singing."

The bizarre answer makes the man in front hesitate. The one in the back keeps coming, another step onto asphalt, close enough. Tim turns quickly and ducks past him and pulls his weapon from his left pocket. They're both nicely in his line of fire now. He imagines shooting them – one, two – mentally maps out where he'll put his first, second, third, fourth bullet. At this range there's no chance he'll miss.

"You better pray I don't start singing or you'll be begging me to shoot you, and how could I say no?"

There's a heartbeat, then another. The man farthest from Tim speaks. "We just want to talk…" The other one moves his hand toward his hip.

"Don't." Tim ignores the talker, shifts his aim and his attention as a warning to the quiet one with the wandering trigger finger, then back to the other. He won't be caught by a distraction. "You must've done some digging on me before you decided to come get some undeserved retribution for your shitbag wife-beating office buddy. Seriously."

"Yeah, we know all about you."

"Then you know I can shoot you both good and dead before you get your weapons out."

They're thinking about it, throwing looks between them trying to gauge how far the other is willing to go to get what they came here for.

"I wouldn't take too long thinking about it if I were you."

It's a fourth voice, a new one. It comes from the street, surprises them all. Two heads snap in that direction to see who else is sneaking around the neighborhood this night. Tim is as surprised as they are, but he keeps his eyes on his target. He recognizes the timbre and knows it's no threat to him.

Raylan steps into view. He's grinning like he's up four drinks on everyone. Maybe he is. He saunters up the driveway toward them, points down at the asphalt and says, "You are aware that Deputy Gutterson was violently abducted from right here. This very spot. I'm surprised he hasn't shot you already. Is this some kinda suicide pact you got between you? You got to believe he's a bit twitchy since what all happened."

The talker of the two speaks. "He shoots us, that's murder."

"Why, you must be in homicide to have figured that out all by your lonesome." Raylan crosses his arms leisurely and leans against Tim's truck. "Call it what you want, the question is will it ever come to trial? I wouldn't be so sure. But it might. So let's just take a moment here and imagine the defense lawyer's strategy, shall we?" He looks up into the black of the night sky, picturing a court room. "'Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my client is a decorated war hero and a sworn-in Deputy US Marshal with an outstanding employment record. Not six months ago he was brutally attacked in the very locale where two vengeance-minded, recently-deceased detectives decided to ambush him in an unprofessional, mean-spirited attempt at settling the score for a perceived slight. We have a qualified court psychiatrist who has examined Deputy Gutterson and, in his professional opinion, believes my client is suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, not from his time in a warzone defending my freedom and yours, but from right here at home as a result of the first attack at his house. The victims,'" – Raylan puts the word in finger quotations – "were seeking to do bodily harm to Deputy Gutterson, a man still recovering from the previous vicious beating, when they surprised him that night in the dark on his driveway.'" He stops his dramatic enactment and shrugs. "I like it. The PTSD could've manifested in a delayed kinda way. It wouldn't take a whole lot of acting to get a mentally unfit nod and then some therapy and then he's free and clear. And you two are, well, dead."

They're still thinking about it.

"Tim, I think you might have to just go ahead and shoot one of them. They're that stupid."

"I could do that."

"Happy to be a witness for the defense." He pushes off the truck and steps closer, up beside one of the detectives. "Imagine when the whole story comes out about whose honor you two were defending. What your partner did to his wife and how they found her that night. How you'd been turning a blind-eye to it all along. Doesn't reflect well. I wouldn't want to be the poor DA on that trial. They'd probably put a junior on it, someone fresh out of law school. No experienced lawyer would want to take it on." Raylan shakes his head. "On a personal note, I'm surprised you two aren't ashamed to be associated with that wife-beating asshole. Certainly not worth dying for." He doesn't sound so conversational anymore when he says, "I'm not giving you another opportunity to walk away. Get the fuck outta here. And don't come back, or I won't wait and watch and let Tim have all the fun – I'll shoot you myself. Or maybe just beat the stupid out of you."

They're done thinking; they walk quickly away down the driveway. Raylan follows, watches to be sure they get in their car and actually leave.

Tim stays where he is, drops his head, drops his arms and shakes them because his fingers feel cold. It's suddenly darker between the houses. He looks up expecting to see a light out on the street or in a neighbor's yard. Nothing's changed. There's no moon either. His eyes are messing with him. He focuses on his vision. He can see Raylan but his peripheral is black. The cold creeps steadily up his legs and he's nauseous, dizzy now. He bends over slightly, rubs his eyes. His knees buckle and he steps shakily over nearer his house and puts a hand on the wall to steady himself, can't and his body does a slow collapse onto the pavement.

Raylan is prophetic.

Now he's having trouble breathing, the air coming too fast and not enough of it. Flashbacks from his abduction are intruding. He's in a room taped to a chair and pain and fear and disgust at himself are swarming, overcoming reason. He's sobbing; he's been sobbing for some minutes now. Curled in on himself sitting on the ground, gun gripped tightly, sobbing. That's how Raylan finds him when he walks back up the driveway.

"Tim?"

He's lost.

"Well, shit," says Raylan, softly, expressive, crouches down and carefully takes the weapon from Tim's hand. He checks the safety and slips the gun into his pocket, sets a hand on Tim's shoulder. "Well, shit," he says again. "You just lost me some money in the office pool, buddy. I guess Nelson was right. You are human."


	19. Chapter 19

He thought this was over. He thought he got away. He thought somehow that he'd prevailed, found a chance to escape. He's certain he remembers a hospital, the fingers healed, but he can feel them broken and throbbing. He knows there's no chance he could fight his way clear, not in the condition they've left him, not when they have him balled up tight, taped so securely to the chair and restricting his world to futile and minuscule and pathetic struggles, impotent growls. He lets one go and hears a voice mocking his efforts. Despair hits hard and a sob slips out. He never cried in front them. It's a small and stupid thing to hold on to but it's something. He never cried. And he never gave them what they wanted. Or did he? But he's sure he remembers being in a hospital bed; he remembers a life after. Or is that just wishing? They've made him feel so powerless. He rubs hard at his face wanting to take off the mask of weakness that they've put on him. But something haunts him while he tries to erase what's there, the idea that maybe it's not a mask and he's rubbing himself raw trying to get at what he thought he was. What if he was never that at all? What if this is what he is?

He growls again. This can't be real. Let it end. He turns his broken fingers into fists and pounds them against the pavement he's sitting on. Let it end.

"Tim?"

"Fuck you." Stupid, futile, weak. Just words. He thought he was more than this.

"Tim, Jesus, don't hurt yourself. There're enough people willing to do that for you."

Someone grabs his arms and holds them.

"I can handle grumpy Tim, snarky Tim, cold calculating Tim…,"

Maybe he should tell them where Sandoval is. Maybe he should just give in, admit that he can't do this anymore, that he's too much of a fucking pussy to take one more blow. He's crying now. And he tells himself he never cries.

"…smug Tim, drunk Tim, tired Tim...,"

_Fucking somebody come help me._

"…but complete meltdown Tim, I don't know what to do with that. You're going to have to help me out here. What's going on, buddy?"

_Help me, please, somebody._

Raylan sighs loudly, takes hold of Tim by the front of his jacket and heaves him onto his feet with a groan for the effort, gives him a shake. "Hey! Snap out of it. You're alright." There's no response. Raylan steadies him against the wall with his left hand and searches Tim's pockets with his right for keys. "I don't want to be out here with you like this if those idiots decide to circle the block. Dammit, where're your keys?"

He grabs Raylan with both hands and struggles against him. Raylan lets go and Tim nearly drags him back to the ground when his knees buckle again and he collapses.

"Tim, let go!"

He releases his hold and protects his head with his arms.

Raylan straightens up, breathing hard. He stares at Tim then throws both hands out in defeat and walks to the front corner of the house to see if Ogden's friends are coming around for a second pass. The street's empty. He returns and looms over the crumpled figure by the door.

"Shit." A different tactic. He crouches and starts talking, his voice conversational, calm. "I've been doing some thinking about what happened. I think they left you alive because they never intended it to go as far as it did. People get caught up in it – momentum, mob mentality. Call it what you want. If it really was personal then they probably weren't pros. Murder was too big a step. They probably figured you'd cave with the first show of violence. Shit, Tim, who wouldn't? Why _did_ you hold out? You got some seriously skewed moral compass, buddy. A bit too rigid. The world don't work that way – black and white, right and wrong. I had you pegged as the kind of guy who knew that." Raylan stands again just to straighten his legs, walks to the corner of the house for another look then back. He stays standing this time. "Maybe that's how you got through being in a war, you and your bulletproof code of conduct. I dunno, maybe it helped somehow. By the way, it's oddly reassuring to see you crying. I wondered if there was something wrong with your tear ducts, some chemical agent damage from your time in the military."

He's crying still, his hands wet with it. He didn't cry in that room, didn't really cry in the hospital either. The memory comes again, waking to a beep and a drip, thinking he needs someone to talk to.

That happened.

He remembers more – Rachel, a game of cards with Cecilia Rose, Nelson, Evelyn. Evelyn. She can't be real. Beautiful Evelyn. Too beautiful for this world. That night at her house. That was ugly. That was of this world. He rubs his left hand over the knuckles on his right, scabs reopened and oozing. Those wounds are real.

With effort he herds his memories into some sort of order and leads his mind back to now. There's no tape. There's no chair. He runs his fingers through his hair – they work just fine. He wipes a sleeve across his face, makes another pass with the other sleeve.

"I can stand here all night if that's your plan, trying to wear me down so I won't come in and drink up the rest of your beer."

Damned if it's Raylan's voice he's hearing. Fucking Raylan. He opens his eyes wondering which reality he'll be facing. He recognizes the boots. "Raylan."

"Well, hallelujah." Raylan tries again, takes hold of Tim and heaves him to his feet. "Who the hell else would be lurking around your place at this hour? What's wrong with you?"

The disorientation is overwhelming. He's beside his house, on his driveway. Maybe it never happened. He closes his eyes and sees an angry face – Derek Hutter. Derek Hutter. How does he know his name? How would he know that face if it never happened?

"Tim. Keys."

He opens his eyes again and stares at Raylan. "How did you find me?"

"You live here. Wasn't hard. Are you alright? Have you been drinking?"

He looks past Raylan and focuses on his truck in the driveway, then the cedar hedge. His head drops back against the wall and he realizes it's a dark sky up there between the houses, not a low ceiling between walls. He's standing. "I didn't tell them," he says and takes a deep breath in. "I didn't tell them." He wipes a sleeve across his face again to catch the salty stragglers that are giving him away. "Fuck." The word catches in his throat and his breath spasms and he starts sinking under the weight of unchecked memories and neglected emotions.

Raylan hauls him to his feet a third time. "No, no, no. You can sit down inside. Feet on the ground, now. C'mon Tim, help me out here. Keys."

Tim fumbles in his pocket. There's a hole in the lining. He's been meaning to sew it up but he never thinks about it until he's lost something through it and has to chase it. He slips his fingers past the tear and they hit metal and he grasps at it and pulls out his keys. He tries blindly to put them into Raylan's hand, his eyes focused somewhere else. He's feeling uneasy out here on his driveway. He hates not having a weapon. Where's his gun?

When Raylan finally gets hold of the keys, Tim opens his hand, palm up, says, "I need a gun."

"Now that's a Tim I can deal with – give-me-a-goddamn-gun Tim. But I'm not giving you back your goddamn gun, not till we're inside and you're acting a bit more normal." Raylan unlocks the door and supports him through it into the kitchen and onto a chair. "Christ, I'm gonna shoot Nelson next chance I get." He turns away and opens a cupboard. "I need a drink. You can have one too if you want, but don't say yes just to be courteous thinking I need the company."

The anger comes suddenly, roaring in like a tsunami after an earthquake, out of the sea of emotions that he's been trying to keep in check. It drowns out Raylan, demolishes everything in its path, pushing through the civilized structures built up in his world and dragging it all in a rampage of debris through his thoughts, physically into his body. He destroys a chair with a wall in a frenzy of release, lets loose with a scream of rage with the first contact of wood and plaster. It was a solid chair, now there are bits on the floor and a hole in the wall.

He drops the splinter of lumber he's still holding, grips another chair, lifts the two back legs off the floor, his breathing ragged. He yells again, a primal and inarticulate outcry of anger and loss.

Raylan watches silently.

He releases his grip on the chair, takes a last wipe at his face, wet again, turns and walks from the kitchen into the front room and drops heavily onto the sofa. He lets his head fall back, crosses both arms up over his eyes trying to hide. With them closed he's back in the room. A lash of despair. He jerks his head up, his eyes open, and wraps his arms tightly around his chest and stares at the wall across from him.

Raylan follows with two glasses and some whiskey. He stands holding them casually, like he was born with a liquor bottle in his hand. He watches Tim. He chews on his bottom lip, the only evidence that he's at all disturbed by the destructive outburst. "If you need a hug," he says, "I can call Rachel. But I ain't giving you a hug."

"I don't need a fucking hug."

"Well, that's a relief." Raylan holds up the bottle he found in the kitchen, eyes the label curiously. "It seems we drank up your supply of bourbon this week. This is all there is left. You need to get your ass to a liquor store. Isn't there one, like, just around the corner?"

Tim looks blankly at Raylan, looks away again and leans forward with his head in his hands, elbows on knees. Breathe in, breathe out – he repeats the four words until he can get through it five consecutive times without being dragged back down into a whirlpool of anger and desperation. His face creases again as he touches on the last. He tries to remember himself before all this. "I fucking hate it."

"Hate what?"

"That they could fucking do this." He yells it, buries the heels of his palms into his eyes and digs his fingers into his hair, holds tightly until his vision is a kaleidoscope of colors that washes over all other images.

"Do what?"

He doesn't answer the question. He can't talk about it with Raylan. He can't talk about it with anybody. He doesn't know how.

"The day you realize that someone can shit all over you and that you can't do anything about it, that's a hard day." Raylan's discomfort is more obvious now - he shifts his weight from one leg to the other, shifts his eyes to look directly at Tim for only a second but it's long enough to reveal a hint of personal history. "Especially hard if you're in it alone. Sometimes I think Arlo might not've had such a hold over me if I'd had a brother to share that asshole with."

Raylan unwittingly gives Tim the opportunity he needs to put the mask of his choosing back in place. "So it's _you_ needs a hug." He wants to sound sarcastic but his voice is too exhausted to have any bite and it comes across as sympathetic instead.

"I already told you, I ain't giving you a hug, or accepting one, but I will facilitate a solution and get Rachel here. Or maybe Miss Zoe. Thinking on it, I'm not entirely sure Rachel does hugs either."

"Fuck."

"What?"

"Just imagining a hug from you and I can feel a need for therapy." 

"They'd just tell you you need a hug."

"What I _need_ ," he says slowly, "is to go down to Las Cruces and fuck somebody up."

"Who exactly?"

"Taylor for a start."

"That I can help you with," says Raylan. He tips the bottle he's still holding in Tim's direction and grins. "Vengeful Tim – now that Tim I can relate to."

Tim tries and fails at a cheeky head tilt, notices finally the bottle that Raylan is still holding. "Since when do you drink Jameson?"

"When it's all there is. Since when do _you_ drink Jameson?"

"When I'm with the guys."

Raylan's no wiser.

"It's a Ranger thing," says Tim as explanation.

"A Ranger thing?"

He nods.

"Why?"

He shrugs. "Fuck if I know. Tradition, I guess."

"Like hooah?"

"We never say that anymore." The 'we' is spoken out of habit and longing. 

"Why not?"

"It's old."

"Maybe Jameson's old."

"Nope, not yet."

"How do you know?"

"Got buddies still in."

Raylan wags the bottle. "Well, if it's alright with you, I'm gonna break tradition."

"Jesus Christ, Raylan." The conversation, the explanations, they're exhausting. "Just fucking pour," he says without a trace of rancor. "You talk too much."

The response releases Raylan from the odd role he's taken on tonight. He grins relief, sits in the chair opposite, pours and passes Tim a glass. "You alright then?"

Tim wets his lips and takes a sip, then a gulp. He can't answer that question either – he doesn't know.

Raylan talks to fill the space. "Speaking of Rangers, you must've had situations where you were handed a truckload of shit and couldn't do squat about it while you were over there." He waves the bottle he's still holding in a roughly easterly direction.

By 'over there' Tim presumes Raylan means Afghanistan. Without doubt there were moments when he felt as desperately powerless, supported on either side by those where he felt all-powerful. One incident hacks it way out from his memories and he pushes it back down quickly before it can clear a space to set up camp in his head – he can't deal with that tonight – but the glimpse makes him realize something. "It was different." Sure shit was always happening but there was always a guy right next to you who was in the same shit. Tim turns to look for the camaraderie in the empty seat beside him. It was different, he thinks, you just had to share a look. Battle buddies. You didn't have to explain anything. "We'd come home and drink." He lifts his eyebrows to pretend it's nothing. "Wash it all downstream."

Raylan twitches like he's going to set down the bottle finally but stops, chews his lip again. "Look, you wanna talk about it, I'll listen."

"You wanna talk about Arlo?" He doesn't ask nicely and it resets the tone of the conversation.

"And then there's asshole Tim. That's a Tim I'm used to."

Tim doesn't take the bait. "They had to come at me on my fucking driveway. What is it about my driveway? Maybe I'll dig it up and plant a bunch of thistles and thorn bushes."

"I suspect they figured they were being clever. Probably heard the story about what happened and decided to fuck with you."

"Assholes."

" _Stupid_ assholes coming at you like that. I held back a spell, hoping you'd shoot them."

"What were you doing here anyway? Nelson put you up to this?"

"It was the only way I could get him to stop nagging. He was worrying like a mother hen. I told him I'd keep an eye on you." Raylan tops up their glasses generously, sits back and sets the bottle on his leg.

"I was dealing with them."

"Yes, you were, and nicely done too. It's what you're not dealing with that's gonna get you."

Tim reaches out to Raylan, his arms wide. "Gimme a hug."

Raylan huffs, drains his glass and tops it up.

Tim holds his empty glass out for a refill. "That's the thing with opening a bottle of Jameson, you have to finish it." 

"More tradition?"

"No, more like 'in my experience.'"

There's little talking while they get to work on the task of emptying the bottle. Limbs and eyelids get heavy and Raylan is drifting off when Tim slurs out, "Seriously, I need to get to Las Cruces somehow without anyone knowing."

Raylan speaks with his eyes still closed. "So when are we going?"

"We'd have to drive. Flying involves identification."

Raylan is on repeat. "So when are we going?"

"It's a long drive."

"What - twenty hours or so?"

"'Bout that."

"We could do it over a weekend if we trade off at the wheel. What d'you have in mind?"

Tim thinks about what's being offered. He'd like to leave now but he doesn't have a plan, not yet. Each new piece of information that sheds light on the events changes his ideas of retribution, each new insight into his own feelings and the feelings of the people around him that have some influence forces a reevaluation. All he's sure of is that someone else has to hurt to balance things out. It has to happen, just like tonight had to happen.

Something Raylan said outside comes back to him, pulls him from his thoughts and screws up his face. "You got a bet going on me at the office?"

"Yep. Everyone's in…except Rachel. We didn't ask Art and I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention it to him. I don't think he'd look favorably on it."

"What's the bet?"

"When you'd finally crack, or if."

Oddly, it doesn't disturb him. If it were somebody else, he'd have organized it. "Are you gonna tell them about…?" He moves his glass in a haphazard circle, encompassing the whole of a shitty night.

"And lose my five bucks? Do you see that happening?"

Tim struggles to his feet, stands swaying. "You can have the sofa. I'll get you a blanket." He takes the empty bottle to the kitchen on his way.

Raylan stumbles across to the sofa and stretches out. A blanket lands with a thud on his chest followed by a pillow. "You know," he says as he kicks off his boots and gets comfortable, "if you'd given him up, there'd have been some evidence that they'd gone to the house where you had him. We still had a uniform on the street in front, a wait and see."

Tim thinks about that, nods slowly. It makes sense.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."


	20. Chapter 20

He wakes up with an erection. It surprises him considering how drunk he was last night and consequently how hungover he is this morning. He blames Zoe. She was in a dream, the snatches he remembers, disjointed action spattered among slices of spinning-room wakefulness or lingering in his consciousness when he stumbled to the bathroom to gulp water from the tap. If he recalls the dream correctly it wasn't nice and so he's a bit troubled by his body's reaction, and a bit amused. He rolls over and sits up and looks down at his shorts sticking out in angles and decides not to do anything about it as penance, though for what he's not sure. Lately it's often he feels a need for penance. Too much of the wrong kind of religion growing up, he thinks, and recalls the last time he attended church which was also the last time he saw his crazy sister. Her way of coping with their childhood was to embrace everything that was wrong about it. She's worked hard at not growing up. She called him a warmonger that last visit. He told her to fuck off. He snorts thinking how little hold that world has on him when those memories do nothing to help his current situation. He looks back at his shorts. Damn Zoe.

A shower then. But the bathroom door is closed and the light showing beneath it means that Raylan is there ahead of him. He shuts himself back in his bedroom, flops onto his bed and jerks off. At some point he realizes the water isn't running. Maybe Raylan needs a towel. Being a good host is not a skill he tries to cultivate but he gets out of bed and pulls on a t-shirt and goes to find a spare towel hoping to hurry Raylan along. He's holding it like a hotel maid, hand up to knock on the door when Raylan opens it. They stand there awkwardly eyeing one another and Tim wishes someone were there filming the whole thing so he could have a laugh about it later.

"I'm leaving," Raylan says eventually, still in the clothes he slept in, eyes bleary and bloodshot, hair sticking up. He looks rough. "But you, young man, have got some cleaning up to do downstairs before you go anywhere." He's being funny, wagging his finger like he's the responsible one.

Tim holds up the clean towel to explain why he's standing right outside the door, feels silly doing it. "You wanna shower before you head out?"

"Don't think it would help." Raylan makes a shooing motion and Tim turns sideways to let him by. He sets his hat on his head and treads heavily down the stairs, calls over his shoulder. "We gotta stop doing this. I'm getting too old."

The admission stuns Tim into silence, but only for a moment. He calls down the stairs after him, "Christ, Raylan, quit nagging. I'll go to the liquor store this afternoon and stock up."

He hears a chuckle, the front door open and close. He drops the towel on the floor at the top of the stairs and trails down after him and locks the door then wanders without purpose or thought through the house and ends up in the kitchen staring at his subcompact. Raylan has left it beside the sink. It's as if he's penned a note: "When are we going to Las Cruces?"

In t-shirt and shorts he can't carry it on him but he picks it up anyway and holds it, sets it down again on the counter while he makes a pot of coffee then picks it up again. It's quiet but for the brew dripping into the pot, the aroma the only good thing about this morning. He draws in a deep breath to wring some pleasure out of the moment, rubs his free hand along his cheek taking the measure of a two-day old beard. He trudges back upstairs and gets out his razor hoping it'll somehow help with the third hangover in a week.

The face in the mirror looks older than thirty, eyes staring back a copy of Raylan's, red and weary. It's hard to shave holding a gun so he sets it down on the window sill. He picks it up again when he's finished, unaware he's doing it, uses his left hand to turn on the shower then looks stupidly at the gun in his right. He sets it down again. He stands in the hot shower longer than he normally would, head bent under the steady stream watching the water swirl and disappear down the drain, precious and wasted. He hates catching himself acting like people he despises, people like Tara's brother-in-law. He shuts off the water and stands dripping.

He's back into bad habits this week with the drinking. He doesn't want to go there again. He's had his fight with alcohol and once is enough.

He dries off and dresses. Gun in hand he trots downstairs.

He should go to the gym, or the range, or running. Instead he finds a garbage bag and takes stock of the destruction in his kitchen. The handgun is in his way again but he's loathe to set it down out of reach. He locates his back holster and secures the gun then gets to it, collects up the larger bits of chair and drywall scattered around his kitchen, drags a broom around the floor to gather up what's left. Everything he needs to patch the wall is in the old garage in the yard. It's heavy work, not physically but mentally. It's not the first time, likely won't be the last that he's had to repair damage from an outburst of anger. His skills at mudding have improved since leaving the military. The coffee he drinks while he works sits raw in his stomach, percolating with his thoughts. After he has the drywall patch in place and the first coat of mud applied, he takes a break and eats at the table. It's a poor choice of seat facing the repaired wall, a reminder. And the toast and peanut butter don't go down any better than the coffee, mix noisily with it and the acid remains of too much whiskey. It complements his mood. He's thinking about his breakdown in front of Raylan last night. It's clearly festering, an unseen wound. He needs to fix that too but he's unsure how to proceed. It's dangerous ground he has to tread to make that repair, not like walking across the yard to the garage for tools.

There's a momentum now to the events – the beatings, the pain, the long recovery, the investigation, the breakthrough, and now the breakdown. Something has to happen. In the piercing focus that can only occur with a pounding headache from a hangover, he sees two ways to proceed, three if he wants to include the possibility of passing his findings over to the special investigative team in DC. There's a derisive snort at the thought.

The first plan is simple, instinctive, and the most appealing: pack a selection of firearms and maybe a few things from his toolbox, get into his truck and drive to New Mexico and do what he was trained to do – violence of action, surgical or blunt depending on the circumstances that present. He has the abilities to deliver either method effectively, and he doesn't much care which it is or how the bodies look at the end of it, only that the number matches the total on his current hate list. The satisfaction of hands-on and immediate results, that's the plus of the first option. But there's a downside. He'd lose his job, maybe do prison time. He rephrases that in his head to 'definitely do prison time.' The thought of a cell doesn't deter him, it's loyalty that gets in the way of his shooting spree, stops him from packing up right now and heading southwest. He feels he owes something to Art, to Rachel, to his buddy in Ohio to whom he's indebted for much of his success reintegrating into civilian life. His buddy wouldn't judge, would understand more than anyone if the need for payback bent to the illegal. Anyone except maybe Raylan. There's someone he could count on to visit him in prison since Rachel won't. He considers which penitentiary they'd likely send him to. No country club for him, not with his background, not when he swore an oath to the federal government to uphold the law, not when the bodies were found and the evidence photos were put in front of a judge and jury. Despite all that, it's still an appealing option.

The second plan is a logistics nightmare, not nearly as satisfying to contemplate, no guarantee of success, but it will accomplish something close to the same thing if he can make it work, and, if he works it carefully, it might keep him out of prison and in his job. That's the plus. The minus is he needs help to make it happen, and it's a lot to ask.

He slides a finger along his knife, wiping off the trace of peanut butter and licking it from his finger. He clears his dishes and finishes cleaning the kitchen. The mud won't dry fast enough. He wastes ten minutes standing and watching it cure, attempting to hurry it along with sheer willpower so he can sand it and paint it and forget about it, but it'll be hours until it's dry enough. It'll be there to remind him until tomorrow at least. He finds himself wishing he had a ruck march to do this afternoon. As much as he hated them there was nothing like it for clearing the head, anything to keep himself from thinking about what happened last night.

He calls his buddy in Ohio but it goes to voicemail. He calls Rachel and hangs up when her recorded voice asks nicely that he leave a message. The junk shop around the corner where he bought a chair last time is closed on Sundays. Restlessness is part of his routine but some days it's impossible to subdue.

He's already in sweats, so he laces on runners and heads out the door, out beyond his usual route, out around the reservoirs and over the New Circle Road and then he's in Art's neighborhood. It's like he planned it, but he didn't. He slows down to a walk on Art's street and lets the breeze cool him down, past Art's house, stops, turns around and stares at the number, and then he's standing on the porch and knocking at the door.

Leslie answers. "Well, hello Tim. Is it Deputy Marshal migrating season? You're the third one I've spotted in my yard today."

"Third?"

"You just missed Raylan, and Rachel came by after church to talk to Art about something."

"Rachel? What did she want, do you know?"

"I don't like to eavesdrop when it's business."

"Maybe I should go," he says, feeling awkward now about showing up on a Sunday afternoon. "I can talk to Art tomorrow at the office."

But Leslie won't let him leave. "I think he'll be happy to make time for you, Tim." She takes his arm and pulls him inside. "How've you been? Art says you're pretty much back to normal. No lasting problems from what happened?"

"No, ma'am."

"I'm glad to hear it." She gives his arm a little squeeze and smiles. "Did you run here?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"From your house?"

"Not directly. I kinda meandered a bit." He looks at his watch. "Maybe a lot."

"Oh to be young again."

Art appears from a doorway off the hall, looks surprised to see him. "Tim? Everything alright?"

Tim thumbs back out the front. "I was just running past and…" He stops and looks down at the floor, wipes a hand across his mouth. "I just wanted to talk to you about...something."

"Come on then. I'll get us something to drink."

Leslie turns and heads to the kitchen before Art finishes his invitation. "I just put some fresh coffee on," she says. "Help yourselves. I'm going to get out of your hair, take the opportunity to call my sister."

They stand quietly together and watch her walk away down the hall. Art says, "Maybe you'd prefer a beer?"

He shakes his head, no. As soon as he does he knows he's blown it, given away that he's hungover again. He never turns down a beer. "Coffee's good," he says, "since she's gone to the trouble of making it and all." He hopes that might fool Art. As if.

"Funny," says Art, "but Raylan didn't want a beer either. Leslie took one look at him and offered him coffee. I think she has a sixth sense for hangovers." He waves Tim down the hall to the kitchen. "Coffee then, though I was hoping for a beer. I guess you two were drinking last night? Raylan hasn't looked that bad since, well, since last time he got drunk with you and that would be…this past Wednesday, or I guess that was actually Thursday." He looks Tim up and down. "You look almost as bad as he did. Christ, I hate it when you two are getting along. It's always trouble for me."

"Leslie said that Rachel was by this morning?" Tim grasps at another topic hoping to distract Art from digging into why he and Raylan were drinking together on a Saturday night, and by all evidence drinking hard.

"Yep." Art lines up two mugs and gets cream out of the fridge.

It occurs to Tim too late that what he and Rachel were up to last night would likely meet with equal disapproval as his excessive drinking with Raylan. So much has happened between then and now that their Facebook hunt seems like weeks ago. He tries to sound innocent. "Everything okay with Nick?"

"Why? Did she say something to you about him?"

"No, I was just…" He shrugs.

Art studies his face. "Tim, enough of the coy act. I'm sure you can guess that she was here to talk about you. She's worried you're going to do something really, really stupid to get revenge for what those assholes did to you. And then along comes Raylan on a Sunday afternoon – and I'm always worried that he's going to do something really, really stupid – and he asks me if he can borrow you this week, take you down to Harlan for a few days to chase something that's got his hillbilly senses tingling in that direction. It was his usual bullshit. And lo and behold, doesn't the man that everyone is interested in show up not a half hour later looking the same shade of Saturday binge-drinking green as Raylan. And you stand there shuffling your feet and shifting your eyes like you're up to no good or hiding something, or actually probably both. Can we just get to it? Tim, if you don't start talking, to me or anybody, about what's going on in your clearly distressed brain, I'm going to take away your gun and put you back on a desk."

"I got more than one gun."

"So, smartass, go ahead and shoot yourself in both feet – see if I care – just not with a USMS-issue sidearm, please."

He hears Art's hands slap onto his hips even with his eyes fixed on the floor. "I'm more careful than that," he says.

"It's a figure of speech, you dumb shit." Art pulls the coffee pot out and pours two mugs, slams it back onto the hotplate. He raises his voice for the next part. "Why are you here, Tim? Are you looking for me to talk you out of a shooting rampage or are you looking for absolution to go and do just that?"

"Would you blame me if I did?"

"No. In fact, I'd like to put a couple of them down myself, but I know better than to even consider it. Apparently you and Raylan don't. He seems happy to help you, and on Marshal time. But think about what you'd be losing. You'd get caught. I promise you. Maybe, if you're lucky, they'd have the decency to cuff you at your house rather than doing it in front of all of us at the office…"

Art's still ranting but Tim's stopped listening. He already knows he's not going to do it. Harshly he thinks that he's getting soft in civilian life. Or maybe he's finally getting his priorities straight. It's a bitch that he can't know which until he's at the end looking back and summing it all up, and then it's too late. Maybe it changes depending, and you have to change with it. Whatever, it feels shitty right now. He feels like he's been cut loose, set adrift. If he felt off-center before, now he feels upended. He knows he's not going to do it, and just making a decision should give him direction. Instead he feels lost.

The acknowledgment guts him. His face twists under the pressure and he brings up a hand to wipe at his eyes hoping Art won't see that he's losing control. He feels a heavy hand on his shoulder. It gets a grip and pulls him in. He feels like a child. He lets it happen. He drops his head on a broad shoulder and cries a second time in twenty-four hours. It's freeing to stand down but part of him hates it.

"I don't know what to do," he says.

A comforting pat and Art pushes him back out to arm's length but keeps a grip on him. His face softens, saddened. "It's been a tough six months. I can only imagine how badly you want to hurt somebody. Find a way to do it that won't come back at you. I'll do anything I can do to help as long as it's not out-and-out murder. I can't support that. I can't. But I can't let it drop, either. It sits badly with me that they could get away with it, doing that to one of my people." He lets go his hold and gives Tim's shoulder another pat. "Shit," he says. "Time to ante up, I guess. Rachel says you got a name?"

"Derek Hutter."

"Derek Hutter. And you're sure it's him?"

He nods.

"So that's two – Derek Hutter and Deputy US Marshal Taylor, though he doesn't deserve the title and I wish I could be the guy to beat him till his badge falls off." Art pours cream into the mugs and hands one to Tim. "I suspect, knowing you, that you've been thinking and that you've already got another idea?" He looks at Tim for confirmation, hopeful.

Tim squints and thinks about the second option.

"So that's a yes." The relief in Art's voice comes in a rush. "Well, let's hear it then."

Art leads the way into the living room, listens while Tim talks, laying out the idea that has been fighting for attention, shouldering its way to the front of the line past his desires and his instincts.


	21. Chapter 21

**PART 3**

He's by himself in a crowd, a separation of his own making. There's a buzzing of voices beyond the police barriers but on this side it's forced stillness and whispers, a collective holding of breath. He ignores it all but for a defensive visual and aural awareness and focuses his energy inward, gathered and purposeful, and waits for a command. He has complete confidence in himself but he's aware that the law enforcement personnel collected in the square don't, not today. There are many secrets kept in this community of professionals despite the plethora of gossips, but it's impossible to keep quiet something as dramatic as the abduction and beating of a US Marshal. The rumors and facts mixed equally through the ranks the weeks and months after he was found. It was the first subject of discussion in squad cars and precinct lunch rooms. What does that do to a man? They conjectured in private, and now they'll see for sure as they watch him assemble his rifle then walk the perimeter looking for his angle.

He's always prepared for a request for help from LPD or KSP. Skills sharp, rifle in good condition. There haven't been many occasions to show off his talents since he joined the bureau in Lexington, and only half of those times has he had to pull the trigger, but he hasn't missed yet. That's the reputation that makes his name. He's a sniper only once, maybe twice a year, but he doesn't miss. Now he's the go-to guy even outside the Marshals Service, everyone hoping to avoid the show that is the tactical response team. There's nothing wrong with SRT's training, but calling the Marshal's sniper means a desirably quicker and quieter result.

Today's events are more public than usual. A high-speed chase ending with a collision and a car in the fountain near the Rupp Arena. A young woman has been dragged into the mess as a hostage in a standoff at the corner park in full view of the surrounding streets and shops jammed with people in celebration of the first truly summer day. Roller blades, skateboards, strollers, coffees and newspapers, cell phones, suits, skirts and shorts, all are resisting being pushed back to a safe distance, gaping at the spectacle, hoping for drama and a story to tell to set them apart at the next social gathering.

It's close enough to the courthouse that the Police Chief didn't hesitate. The phone call to Art Mullen was made and Tim bagged his rifle and jogged to the scene.

Rachel wanted to follow, anxious, but Art pointed sternly at her, pinning her to her desk, and barked, "Stay!" and hustled after Tim himself. He's out of breath when he catches up with him. Tim pierces the Chief's bullet-proof vest with a look that goes straight to the doubt.

"Don't look at me like that," says Art. "It's a lovely day for a walk and I'm allowed to go out if I want to. I'm the boss."

Tim turns away and ignores Art too. He turns his cap brim around and gives his attention to his weapon, pulls down the legs of the bipod and sets the rifle gently on the hood of an LPD cruiser, settles the butt into his shoulder and peers through the scope at his target. All through the routine he's trying not to think about Art's reaction to the phone call. He virtually tiptoed over to Tim's desk then said in a voice of forced calm, "That was LPD. They're looking for a guy with a rifle. Do you want to do this or would you rather I tell them you're not in?"

He managed to refrain from saying the first thing that entered his mind – _This is why I keep my shit to myself_ – thinking that if he hadn't lowered his defenses at Art's house yesterday, if he hadn't melted in his emotional acid with Raylan the night before that, there would be no doubting today. And he bit back the second – _Fucking Christ!_ _Are you fucking serious? You think I'm gonna hide here behind my desk?_ – before saying the third in a tone of forced boredom, "Where?" And now here he is.

He hears Art behind him talking to the senior officer on the scene, Sergeant Somebody. Tim's met him before but he can't remember his name. The two men are discussing the face in the crosshairs. "He's desperate," says the Sergeant. He looks desperate, thinks Tim, but doesn't everyone who ends up centered in his scope. "He killed a gas station attendant outside of Frankfort, put a Statie in the hospital." Tim blocks the voices and concentrates on the job. It doesn't matter to him what the guy did – he'd just as rather not know. 'Take the shot' or 'stand down' is all he needs to hear and when it comes to it, he honestly doesn't care which it is.

The standoff is broken by a show of aggression, shots fired at the nearest cruiser. The man has an assault rifle and those rounds are traveling far enough to put everyone in the square at risk. There's a thrill of reaction from the crowd still gathered despite the continuing police efforts to move them back, a spattering of instinctive screams, nervous murmuring. Some take a step or two away, the smarter few duck down and move for cover. The police can't let this go on. Somebody else on the sidelines is going to get hurt today if they don't stop this. Tim drops his finger onto the trigger, anticipating the call, and breathes easily.

Then it comes: "If you got a shot, Deputy, take it." Another gentle breath, his trigger finger pulling smoothly all the way through, a bullet explodes from the barrel. The man goes down and doesn't get up again. He sees but doesn't hear the scream from the hostage.

He works the bolt and gets another round ready just in case, watches intently where he last saw his target, then his view is interrupted by a vest, POLICE boldly stenciled, and he slips his finger off the trigger and rests it across the guard but doesn't stand down, not yet. Squawking from the radio. More movement. A sigh of relief that builds until it reaches him. "It's over. He's down. Nice shooting."

He pulls back from the scope and clears the redundant round from his rifle and thumbs the safety on, straightens and turns the brim of his hat around to block the sun again.

There's a warm hand on his shoulder, squeezing. "I guess me and Raylan are buying again tonight."

He squints at the fountain, remembers a promise to himself just this morning, absolutely no alcohol until Friday at the end of the day. He shrugs, thinking one drink can't hurt.

Raylan appears beside Art. Tim wonders how he always manages to be there in the thick of it. He looks over the hood of the cruiser at the car in the fountain, looks at Tim and they share a thought.

Raylan gives it voice. "Shit, I guess we're drinking again tonight. I swore after Saturday night I wouldn't touch a drop till the end of the week."

"You could just buy me one."

"I'd feel bad leaving you to drink alone."

"I'm not sure what's harder to imagine – you not drinking or you feeling bad."

"Still an asshole."

"Still got some catching up to do."

"I think you've lapped me, you just didn't notice when you passed me the first time, too busy shooting off your mouth."

"Boys." Art says it like he's speaking to children.

Tim crouches down by his rifle case to disassemble his weapon. Something hits him from behind, not hard, but with enough momentum to tip his balance and he has to put a hand out on the car in front of him to stop himself toppling over. He turns sharply and is eye-level with corn rows and pink baubles and little white teeth presented with a soundtrack of giggles.

She hits him again, palms open, slaps his shoulder, then bends over and laughs. Cecilia Rose. Who else would dare assault him when he's so heavily armed? Only innocence can do that.

"Hey, little miss," he says and looks around for Evelyn. "Better stop being mean to me or I might have to arrest you. Where's your mamma at?"

The senior sergeant looks horrified that someone, even someone as small as she is, could manage to sneak past the barriers. "Where did she come from? McCullough!" He yells at an officer near the line, gestures at the little girl. "What're you doing over there?"

Tim spots Evelyn at the front of the crowd. She's covered much of her face beneath wide-lens '60s Hollywood sunglasses but he imagines the same expression of exasperation and apology as when he first laid eyes on her at the hospital, peering in the door to his room looking for her daughter. She's calling for Cecilia Rose, gesturing for her to come back. Tim pushes to his feet and passes Raylan his rifle and takes a little hand in his and walks the girl back to her mother.

Evelyn takes off her sunglasses and smiles. She looks better than the last time he saw her, but that's not saying much. She says a casual "Hello," but what he reads from her eyes is 'take care of me.' It's as if she's unwittingly laid open her entire history for his examination and he sees clearly the path that brought her here and the path she would lay out for him if she had her way. She's watching him, needy, and he doesn't like it. He's not judging, only honest with himself. He can't be that guy. He pulls the brim of his hat down tightly to put his face into shadow so she can't see the chill that's settled on it, and lifts Cecilia Rose into waiting arms and mumbles something like, "Glad to see you doing alright."

"Can we talk?" she says, but the crowd is relaxed and chattering again and someone yells out to him, "Nice shooting, buddy," and he takes advantage of the timing and pretends not to hear her, turns and walks back to Art.

"I recognize that look," says Art, his eyes fixed on the girls in the crowd. "Not something you need to be getting yourself involved with right now."

The comment pisses him off. Art didn't need to say that. He doesn't need to be told. He can hear her calling to him. He takes his rifle back from Raylan and finishes breaking it down.

* * *

   


"Art, no one will find out."

The three Marshals are walking back to the courthouse. Rifle bag over his shoulder, Tim lags a step behind to give the other two enough space on the sidewalk. Raylan is talking, using his talents at persuasion. Art sighs and makes faces and turns now and again to look back at Tim.

"Me and Tim, we'll be stealthy. Air Force ain't got nothing on us. Right Tim?"

"You'll have to leave the hat behind if we're going for stealthy," says Tim.

"I can do that."

Art speaks finally. "You can't do anything stupid."

Tim pipes in again. "Not sure he can do that."

"You're supposed to be working with me here," says Raylan and turns to glare.

Another sigh from the Chief Deputy. "Shit," he says. "Alright."

Raylan smiles back at Tim. "Alright."

Art stops suddenly and turns so he can speak directly at both of them, puts emphasis on each word and on the heavy spaces between. "You can't do anything stupid. Do you hear what I'm saying?"

"Art, we got this."

"Jesus, don't make me regret letting you go."

Raylan hooks a thumb in the front pocket of his jeans, his swagger ramping up now he's got his way. "It's just Harlan."

"You make sure I can sell it like that when they start their investigation."

"Art, you worry too much."

* * *

   


Art wants to go back to The Chase; he likes their selection of local beer. It's only a fifteen minute walk from work and Tim needs to move, the restlessness getting to him by the end of the day. He sneaks out early, wanting to get there ahead of his coworkers and hopefully see Zoe alone, even for a moment, to get past that awkward post first-date hello without everyone around to watch. It seems there's a crowd intending to gather for this Monday night drink, a celebration. It's an odd thing to celebrate, a shooting, but there it is. He's the one who called everyone's attention to the irony, saying loudly in a voice with too much drawl, "It's a rootin' tootin' shootin' party," his sarcasm getting the best of him when it became clear that the event was going to be unusually well attended. Art scowled and reworked it to fit more comfortably within his personal moral constructs. "We're not celebrating. We're being supportive," and he patted Tim roughly on the back, hard enough to suggest a deeper layer of disapproval underneath the veneer of support.

Tim hustles the few blocks, hands jammed into his pockets, hot and sweaty when he arrives, opens the door and steps into the cool dim of the brew pub. He's not certain Zoe's working today. His eyes adjust to the lighting and he sees her leaning across the bar, on tiptoe with one foot lifted up behind her. He feels suddenly possessive. It takes him by surprise and then a smile happens all on its own, erases a few years off his face. The owner sees him and nods in his direction to give his staff the heads-up that there's a customer waiting.

Zoe turns, grins when she spots him and walks over. "Good afternoon. Can I help you?"

He has fifteen or twenty smart answers for that question but he just ducks his head and keeps smiling.

"I'm assuming drinks?"

"Yes, ma'am." He smacks himself mentally, wishing he'd said "No, I'm here for you." He looks up quickly and asks if she's still free Wednesday night, their pre-scheduled second date, to make up for not being the smoothest talker.

"I am," she says. "Are you?"

"I wanna be but it might not happen. I think work's gonna get in the way and there's nothing I can do about it."

"That's too bad." She looks away.

"When are you off next?"

"I have to check the schedule."

"I'll text if I can, if something comes up, if I can't meet you."

She blinks, studies him, a serious expression. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I was there today, by the arena, along with half of Lexington."

"Oh, uh…"

"It's a lot to ask of somebody."

"It's alright," he says, then wonders if the 'somebody' she's referring to is her, not him. "Look, if you don't like what…" He rolls a hand, can't figure out how to phrase what he wants to say.

She reaches over and runs a hand quickly and lightly down his arm. It seems unchoreographed, something just happening naturally. She's reassuring him. He watches the whole thing but still looks surprised when she then leans in close, backing up the first action with another display of comfortable acceptance. She's close enough that he feels her breath on his cheek when she whispers, "Tell me you're not drinking alone." She says it just loudly enough to be heard over the music.

He wants to put his hands on her, anywhere, but the desire ends in an awkward arm movement. He ducks his head again, gives it a small shake. "I wish. No, it's gonna be a team effort today."

"That makes me feel better about working tonight. So, really, you're okay?"

He wishes he knew how to answer to give the best impression of himself. By default, he goes with the truth, looks at her straight. "I'm fine with it. It is what it is."

She openly studies his face. "Okay then. So how many of you are coming?"

"I'm not sure. More than six."

"Go grab the big table before someone else comes in and steals it. Beer or whiskey?" She calls the question over her shoulder as she moves away back to the bar.

"Just water."

That stops her cold and she turns confused. "Pardon?"

"Just water for now. I'm gonna wait for reinforcements before I start drinking."

She brings him a glass of cold water and a mug of hot coffee and cream, no sugar.

* * *

   


The next morning he and Raylan are in a car heading south on the I75 past Corbin. He texts Zoe from the car to cancel their date, feeling badly for setting her up as his alibi. It wasn't his intention.

_Won't be able to meet tomorrow. Stuck in Harlan for a few days. Work. Call you when I get back._

Tim pays cash for an old pickup for sale on a side road once they leave the interstate. The old-timer he buys it from is casual about the transaction, more concerned with the cash in hand than the legalities of ownership transfer. He drives it, following behind Raylan through Harlan County. They rent a motel room outside of Middlesboro, leave their phones on the bed and the Lincoln in the parking lot and hit the road again, head east through Tennessee then Arkansas, on through the night into Texas. They take turns at the wheel, or with eyes closed slumped against the side window, until they arrive in El Paso a full day later. After finding a hotel room that'll take cash, they walk around to stretch their legs and take in the sights, the border fence and the bullet holes on the buildings facing the neighbors, Mexico and the City of Juarez. It wouldn't be right without a drink, so they stop at a bar for lunch and do tequila shots before heading back to the motel room for a couple of hours sleep on a bed. It feels good not to be folded into a car seat.

Tim wakes Raylan around ten and they drive the last hour across the state line into Las Cruces, New Mexico. Tim has an address. They pull up down the road and sit and watch.

It's a roadhouse on the outskirts of the city. It only took a little research for Tim to discover that Derek Hutter is the owner of the establishment and he lives upstairs. Interestingly, it's a biker hangout. Hutter isn't officially one of the gang but his establishment is their unofficial gathering place and so he enjoys the perks, which are a certain status with the bikers, protection, and muscle when he needs to get information from a US Marshal.

On the road from Kentucky, in the hours that they were both awake, Tim and Raylan mulled the facts Tim had gathered in his investigation. They pieced together a series of likely events, starting with the assault on Hutter's daughter, a reaction from the bikers to an attack on one of their own, the gang war that might've ensued if Sandoval's people hadn't cut him loose, washed their hands of him. It all led, inexorably, to Sandoval running into the wide-open arms of the Federal Witness Protection Program to hide – hide his 'chickenshit ugly ass' as Tim put it – and then to Tim being on the track when the unscheduled freight train careened through Lexington. That's where their speculation ended. They've talked it to death, now they're waiting for confirmation of their suspicions, sitting in an old pickup on the side of a dark two-lane highway in New Mexico.

"I don't think I could live in Arkansas or New Mexico," says Raylan.

"Why not?"

"I dunno. The trees maybe. I'd miss the trees the way they are in Kentucky."

"You said you liked Miami alright."

"That was different."

"How?"

"There were palm trees in Miami."

Tim snorts. "I call bullshit. Admit it, you don't like Arkansas and you included New Mexico just to hide that fact."

"Do you like Arkansas?"

Tim shrugs. "Don't really have an opinion. I could live there, I guess. Their gun laws are alright. I don't think I could live in California though, even with the palm trees. Washington State's good. Texas. Florida."

"So your entire criteria for where you'd like to live is based on what the gun laws are like?"

"Pretty much."

"So you'd like Alaska."

"That might be pushing it. It's cold up there."

"Your grasp of geography is impressive."

Tim turns in the car seat so he can give Raylan a properly aimed glare. "This from the guy who thinks palm trees are like oaks and maples."

"I didn't say that."

"Yes, you did."

"No. I said I'd miss the trees."

"…like they are in Kentucky."

"I mean I'd miss trees, period."

"There's trees in Arkansas."

"Not like in Kentucky."

"You see? You said it again."

"What I mean…"

"Derek Hutter." Tim straightens, goes still, eyes focused down the street. "Derek Hutter." He says it again as if he could put more meaning into it. He finds it odd that he isn't angry. In fact, he feels nothing.

Raylan follows Tim's gaze to a man walking out the front door of the bar with a bag of garbage for the bin. "That's him?"

"Derek Hutter." He speaks the name one more time hoping for something to ignite.

They continue to watch until the neon _OPEN_ sign is turned off and the last Harley clears the parking lot. "Let's get her done," says Raylan, opens his door and steps out onto the street.


	22. Chapter 22

He's still waiting for the anger to show itself as he walks across the parking lot of the roadhouse and up the front step. Raylan tries the door. It's not locked. In concert they pull pistols from holsters and slip into the building.

Derek Hutter is bent over behind the bar directly across from them, straightens when he hears the click of the door closing and footfalls on the wooden floor. He looks at them curiously, then with a bit of fear when he sees the weapons out.

"Hands up on the counter," says Raylan with a nod, says it like he's ordering ice cream at a truck window.

Tim stops just inside, ostensibly to keep an eye on all four corners of the room, the entrances and stairways, but in truth he's riveted by the face. He's studying it carefully, looking for the angry man that he's been tracking, that he expects to see here, now. Instead there's just a man, not a monster, not something evil, inhuman and hated, nothing to fit the nightmare Tim remembers. He feels let down, confused. It puts him back in Afghanistan, on one mission out of hundreds in a half-dozen deployments. That night has been buried deep in his memories, unremarkable. He remembers a face, a target, kill or capture, preferably capture. They had to opt for the 'kill' in the order as things turned out. It was one of those goat-fuck missions, the war gods begrudging them an easy night, throwing in twists and bumps that left the lead team, his team, with no alternative but to finish the job with a bullet. At some point, standing next to the body in the compound, he remembers looking around and seeing evidence of what the man was before he became a mastermind for the Taliban's weapons trade. Here was a blacksmith, from generations of blacksmiths in a village where everyone knows everyone, a wall of tools and a forge, a father and a husband, his wife and kids huddled in horror-silence in a corner. It struck him as improbable that this was the monster who pioneered a cheaper and smaller and deadlier IED, the hated enemy on their hit list. He remembers looking down curiously at the body and seeing it differently, his feelings shifting abruptly from what they were when his team was shown the photo of their target at the briefing. He could see the man, commonplace in any other moment, human, relatable, a nine-to-fiver. After that night he didn't look around ever again. It wasn't a conscious decision, but something instinctive, a survival mechanism. He never went looking for any fucks to give from then on.

He tries to hold to the lesson, fixes his eyes on Derek Hutter looking bewildered at Raylan. He replaces the scene with memories of a room and a chair, of broken fingers and a metal pipe, of pain and fear and an angry face spitting.

There's a picture behind the bar of a girl on horseback, young and beautiful and smiling. He looks at it, but doesn't linger there.

He hears Raylan giving orders. "Come on out here, Mr. Hutter." Watches him kick a chair out from a table. "Have a seat. We just want to ask you a few questions." Watches Derek Hutter as he hesitates, glances desperately over at what is likely a shotgun hidden down behind the bar. "Don't," says Raylan. "Just don't." And he wags his gun slightly, gesturing between him and his partner at the door. "Neither of us misses often. In fact, I'm having trouble remembering a time when we did miss. Do you remember one?" The question is for Tim, and Raylan turns his head to look at him when he asks, confident that Tim won't take his sights off his target. Raylan doesn't expect an answer. He wants to draw Hutter's attention to the fact that there are two of them, both capable, and they mean to get what they came for. He turns back smiling the way he does when he knows he's on the winning side. "Doesn't matter really. Just know that we likely won't miss if you give us reason to shoot you."

Hutter is now staring at Tim, his gaze shifting his way after Raylan widened the circle of drama to include him. He studies Tim's face briefly then looks back at Raylan. He's trying to figure out what this is about. He has no idea what's going on, why they're here. Tim waits for the recognition that must come, for the horror to spread over Hutter's features at this ghost from his past coming to haunt him. But it doesn't happen. Hutter doesn't know him. How can he not know him? The realization is a blow, a sucker punch to the stomach, and Tim's face twists with the pain of it. The feeling of helplessness returns but the anger that follows is stronger. It pushes him, propels him across the room. He deftly changes his grip on his gun and smashes it into Hutter's face, half hoping it'll go off by accident. Blood spurts and Hutter crumples. "You fucking don't know who I am, do you?" He doesn't wait for an answer, holsters the gun and pulls his tormentor off the floor and punches him hard. "Recognize me yet, or do I need to break your fucking finger?" He yells in frustration between hits. The understanding that finally creeps onto Hutter's face gives no satisfaction.

Raylan stands back and lets it happen. When Tim doesn't stop after three or four hits, Raylan holsters his weapon and wades in. "Enough, Tim. We promised." He has trouble pulling him off. It's the reasonable voice more than the wrestling that stops the madness. "Where're you going with this, buddy?" "This ain't the plan." "We can't get what we came for if he can't talk."

The words are infuriating because they're familiar. They were said almost verbatim by another man in a room where he sat taped to a chair bleeding. He stops struggling against Raylan, knowing he's right, and strides an angry path back to the door, turns in a restless circle then storms out into a cool and still night.

* * *

 

"We got it mostly right," says Raylan. They're in the truck on the way back to El Paso. "Only part we didn't anticipate – and I see it as an understandable bias, us not wanting a fellow Marshal to be dishonorable – is that they didn't have to threaten Taylor. They paid him. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, but any way you look at it, it sucks. It also took all Hutter's savings so he had nothing left to offer you. Nothing left now for his daughter either except the business which he borrowed on. Not thinking clearly. I'm sure she could use the money now."

"How much?"

"Just under a hundred grand."

Tim is staring out of the car window and doesn't respond.

"Knowing you I doubt you would've taken a bribe. Maybe if he had a nice rifle on offer."

Raylan's trying for a laugh, or a jaded smirk at the very least, but the anger is still roiling and Tim reacts to that, lashes out at the old pickup, hits the dashboard hard.

"Hey, that's not anyone's face. Not modern molded plastic either." Raylan puts out a hand to stop him. "You'll just break a bone if you keep that up."

"Fucking Taylor." Tim hits the door instead with the meatier part of his hand. And again. They're stronger than they look, his hands. You load enough magazines and shoot enough firearms and your hands develop a toughness. A few more slams on the door and he slumps back, hits the side of his head on the window to try and clear the noise. He can't think straight with the anger screaming in his head. "Fuck."

"Are you done?"

"I dunno." He clenches and unclenches his fists, testing, brings them up to smother his face. He's not certain even what he's angry about anymore.

Raylan lets a handful of dark miles go past before he broaches the subject again. "It must be a bit conflicting for you. I guess you saw the photo of his daughter? The 'before.' First thing I saw when we walked in. Hard to miss." He pauses for some input from Tim, gives up eventually and carries on. "He talked about her a good deal, trying to bargain with me. But that doesn't excuse what he did. I think your plan is a good one, and fair. Stick to your guns." He stops to consider his last statement. "Well, your plan, I mean."

The glow from El Paso, thirty minutes up the road, is spreading, growing into an orange dome on the horizon and beginning to compete with the light from the instrument panels of the truck. He rolls down the window to let in some air, and so does Raylan, and the wind and the grumbling of the old motor fill the cab and drown out the roar that's coming from inside his head. There's not much to look at in the dark outside but billboards illuminated, road signs and fence posts caught in the headlights. Tim fixes his eyes on something though, watches it intently. Raylan looks over once then settles back into his seat and focuses on the highway.

In the lull an animal runs across the road, a manic dash for safety and whatever is on the other side. Raylan, startled, brakes and curses under his breath. "Stupid... I don't understand Darwin's lording it over Creationism when there isn't one critter on the planet that has figured out a smart way to cross a road yet. You'd think..."

The movement has drawn Tim back and he lets out a sigh. Defeated. He interrupts Raylan's discourse on evolution. "Can we just head back tonight. Pick up our stuff and drive through?"

"Alright."

Tim shuffles in his seat, tries to get more comfortable but can't. Comfortable is elusive tonight. "You good till El Paso? I can take over then and you can sleep."

"Hell, I got enough adrenaline going to see me through to Arkansas." Raylan looks over. "But I'll let you drive when we get to the motel, just to make you happy. Promise me you won't run us off a bridge in a fit of…whatever."

"You don't gotta worry. Me and Darwin, we have an understanding."

* * *

 

He wakes up in the dark, the feel of wheels beneath him moving fast on a highway. He sits up abruptly, eyes open wide adjusting to the night.

Raylan is driving still, one hand lazily draped over the steering wheel. He's wearing his hat. "You were tired," he says.

"Where are we?"

"We passed Midland about an hour ago."

"Shit, sorry." Tim digs at his eyes then looks back at the hat. "Did you stop and get our stuff at the motel?"

"Yep."

"I slept through it?"

"Unless you were faking. Were you faking?"

"Fuck."

"Coffee?" Raylan points to lights up ahead, a gas station and hopefully a pot of hot coffee. "We need gas anyway." He slips onto the off-ramp and pulls in next to a gas pump.

"I'm hungry," says Tim.

"If you're good, I'll buy you one of those packaged burritos. Maybe they'll have a microwave so I can heat it up for you." He drops his hat onto the seat and puts on Tim's baseball cap to cover his face a little.

"What if I'm not good?"

Raylan's already out of the truck, ducks and peers back in at him. "You pump gas. I'll get the food."

Tim picks up the cowboy hat and sets it on his head and immediately feels stupid wearing it. He keeps his back to the shop and the security cameras as much as possible and tries to move like he was born with a Stetson. It fits him all right, suits him about as well as a tiara.

Raylan comes back and passes in coffee and water and food. Tim has taken over the driver's seat and Raylan gratefully gets comfortable on the passenger side. There are no cup holders. Tim drives a bit with his knees when they get back onto the straight lines of the interstate. A coffee in one hand, he devours a chemical burrito with the other, and some fake-cheese-filled pizza pretzels. He rattles a package of frosted fruit pies trying to get at the treats until Raylan snatches them away and opens them for him. Then it's quiet for a few miles and Raylan starts snoring softly. Tim looks over at him and considers nudging him awake with a light backhand to the shoulder and some sarcasm, but doesn't.

He drives a long leg to Texarkana, watches the sun come up. They stop only once at the side of the highway so he and Raylan can take a piss. They make Memphis in good time and have an early dinner and then drive straight through to Kentucky, arriving back in Middlesboro after midnight. The doors of the old truck creak less than their joints as they climb out and walk stiffly to their motel room. They lie themselves out flat on the beds and sleep until morning.

* * *

 

Raylan is talking to Art when Tim comes out of the bathroom, showered and feeling somewhat human.

"Pretty much how we concluded," says Raylan and then he's listening and then talking again. "Not as much as you might think. Typical lack of thought by the criminal element…"

Tim picks up his phone to text Zoe and tell her he'll back this afternoon and to ask when she's free again.

They abandon the truck on an old dirt mining road that Raylan remembers from his school days, wipe it down and hide the keys nearby. It's well out of the way but worth the detour.

"It might still be there if you need it again," says Raylan when Tim gets into the Town Car with him.

"Assuming I could find it."

They backtrack and get onto the road to the interstate. Every small town has a gas pump and a corner store or a Ma and Pa restaurant. Tim points hopefully to each one they pass, an earnest and hungry face for Raylan. His stomach growls noisily as evidence of a neglected appetite.

But Raylan doesn't slow down. "There's this place in Corbin – best damn donuts. I'm holding out."

"They better be good."

"Better than good."

"They better be."

Half an hour later Raylan is standing on a street corner staring in dejected disbelief at the FOR LEASE sign posted on the door of his favorite donut shop. "Well, shit."

"I'm still hungry."

"You're hungry, but I'm disheartened. That's way worse." A disconsolate sigh, Raylan walks right up to the door and cups his hand to block the light and peers inside. "I tell you, this place has the best sugar donuts."

"Had."

Raylan steps back to the sidewalk and squints up at the sun glaring over the false front of the store. "Well, shit. This is disappointing. I guess we'll have to go to the other one."

"There's another one?"

"Yeah." Raylan waves east.

"Great. Hopefully it's still in business." Tim is already back in the car and waiting, talking through the open window.

Raylan follows slowly, sits behind the wheel and slides the key in the ignition but doesn't start the car. He peers around Tim, a last look at the shop. "There's some things that there's no coming back from. Not unless you could time travel and stop it happening. There's nothing that'll make it right again."

Tim looks at Raylan then at the defunct donut shop. "You're not talking about donuts, are you?"

"No."

"Can we do philosophy class while we're eating?"

"Sure." Raylan turns the key and pulls out from the curb.

* * *

 

They arrive back in the office after lunch, the world still spinning in its usual way. Raylan's right, and Tim knows it. There's no going back. He learned it before he joined the Marshals Service. He knew it before he was even legal drinking age, not that he didn't get drunk anyway when that lesson was hammered home the first time. He can't set things right by going after Hutter or even Sandoval.

He goes through the motions of being a Deputy US Marshal then leaves right at five, declining offers of a beer after work. For once he doesn't feel like drinking; as usual he doesn't feel like company.

The house is particularly empty, particularly silent. He pours himself a large glass of water and drinks it and pours another and sits on his sofa and stares at what's across the room from him. He falls asleep after an hour.

A soft knocking at his front door wakes him. He checks his watch. It's almost eight. Rachel smiles when he opens the door. She's carrying a pizza box and a six-pack of beer, a mirror of him the weekend past. She holds it up and makes a show of enjoying the aroma seeping through the sides.

"I got your favorite," she says. "Sausage, pepperoni, eggplant."

"I hate eggplant."

"Guess I'll have to eat it all then."

"You did not get eggplant."

"Maybe it was roasted zucchini."

"I'll eat that."

He takes the box from her and leads the way to the kitchen. They sit at the table, not bothering with plates or glasses, drink their beer from a can.

"That's a long drive to Harlan. I can't believe you and Raylan survived the time together."

"I'm practiced at dealing with adversity."

She nods, picks off a slice of pepperoni and throws it on his piece. "You could've asked me, you know. I would've gone with you."

He stops chewing and considers the woman sitting across from him. "I didn't think you... I didn't know."

"Well, now you do."

He washes down a mouthful of pizza with some beer and thinks about that. "I have to go back again. Maybe in a couple weeks."

"Let me know. It's better if you're not out with Raylan twice. It'll be easier for Art to cover it all later. They wouldn't believe that we might all collude to help you. The closer you get to Washington, the less you believe in loyalty."

"Maybe I could ask Nelson to go up to Cleveland and find Sandoval for me."

"He'd probably say yes."

He thinks about that too. "Lambs to slaughter."

She purses her lips in agreement.

"I have a buddy in Ohio," he says. "I can ask him."

"You trust him?"

He opens the empty pizza box and peers inside, shuts it and sits back.

"Can you trust him?" she says again, invested now that all their futures are on the line.

"The shit we've been through, me and him. There's nobody I trust more." He wipes his mouth with a hand, catches her eye and says, "Sorry."

She shrugs.

* * *

 

The legal definition of stalking involves the very specific notion of _unwanted_ attention. He's hoping this doesn't qualify. Zoe hasn't replied to his text from this morning and his after-work nap is interfering with sleep so he's sitting in his truck on the street near The Chase waiting for the bar to close, waiting to see her. Somebody lets her out the front and locks the door behind her. He gets out and leans against his truck and watches her hoping she'll look over, but she doesn't see him, her eyes locked on the screen of her phone, thumbs busy.

He calls out, not wanting to frighten her. "Hey, Zoe."

She looks up and sees him and smiles instantly and changes direction, a little bounce in her step that was lacking a minute ago. Only then does he stop worrying about a restraining order.

"You need a lift home?"

"Sure." She holds up her phone. "I was just replying. I'm free tomorrow night."

"I could take advantage of that."

"I think you should 'cause I'm working the entire weekend."

"I can work around that too."

"What're you doing here?"

"I need a hug." He can't believe what just came out of his mouth but he has no intention of taking it back.

She doesn't miss a step, right up to him and slides her arms around his waist and turns her head to lay it flat against his chin and squeezes hard, then she moves her hands up and around his neck and kisses him lightly. He's still leaning against his truck and uses it to pull her strongly against him, not satisfied with a light kiss. She doesn't seem to mind, opens her lips, inviting. She smells like beer and fried food. That's okay because there's another scent underneath that's very feminine, and it's overwhelming and completely different from anything else he's inhaled over the past three days.

She invites him home and he thinks that sounds like a good plan and he wags his tail.  He feels like a stray dog being offered rare affection and a warm bed.


	23. Chapter 23

He's standing in his shorts and nothing else, fishes his phone from his pile of clothes and tiptoes into the kitchen of Zoe's apartment. His eyes opened automatically at six and he lay there in the stillness, not wanting to get up. Now it's 7:30 and he knows Art is awake having his coffee so he calls him at home to ask for a day off. The plan is to crawl back into bed and enjoy Zoe's company for a few more hours. If he were someone else he might just sneak in before lunch with an excuse ready, but the Ranger in him won't allow it. Late is not acceptable.

There's empty air after he says, "Morning, Boss," and makes his request, "Can I take a day?" At first he thinks he's dropped the signal. He checks for bars on the cell's display. All good. Between checking the signal and bringing the phone back up to his ear he realizes what's going on – Art is managing to be sarcastic without words or visual cues. It's impressive. He replies in kind. "Chief? Do I need to call 911? You having a stroke over there?"

"Just give me a minute to digest this. It's a bit early in the morning to be knocking my world off its axis."

The silence continues. He thinks he hears the sound of coffee being sipped. "Just yes or no, if it's not too hard for you."

A concerned, "Is everything alright?" Maybe some suspicion.

"Yeah, fine," he says, but as soon as the words are out of his mouth he recognizes the lie. He's not fine. He's not sure he'll ever be fine. He thinks about it while he lies some more. "I have something I wanna do and there's nothing urgent on my desk."

A shorter pause. "What is it you wanna do?"

Fair enough, he thinks. Under the circumstances, he'd ask too. "There's this girl…and she's free today, and…" That's the truth and it makes it easy to say. He leaves the details for Art to assume.

"Oh. A girl. Alright. Then, yes. Enjoy yourself. Keep your phone on."

"It's never _not_ on."

"I had to say something to cover the fact that I'm dumbfounded that you're taking a day off to spend with a girl. Is it that cute waitress from The Chase? I bet it is. Is she as nice when she's not bringing you beer, or was that the whole draw for you?"

"I'll see you tomorrow," he says and hangs up, cutting off the interrogation.

He takes a step toward the bedroom then stops. He thinks again about Raylan's half-assed way of handing out wisdom. Then he thinks about the wisdom. How ever awkward the delivery, there's truth in the words: _There's some things that there's no coming back from._ But Raylan's wrong to assume that he doesn't know that already. There was no coming back from Afghanistan. His world changed and he changed with it. He's struggling with it still, right now, coming to terms with who it is that came back from that place. He wonders if Zoe can like that man. He wonders if he can like that man. He has to. It's all there is. Acknowledge it; accept it; move on.

A couple of hours ago he might have said that things were getting better – so it appeared in the drugged contentment that follows good sex and a sound sleep – but talking to Art lifted the blind. He admits to himself that he sought out Zoe last night because the trip to New Mexico brought no satisfaction. It only added deeper layers of dissatisfaction. He's here because he doesn't want to think about it, and she's doing a fine job of distracting him. But she can't fix his world for him. That's entirely his responsibility.

He walks over to the little table at the end of her kitchen and sits down with his revelation. He looks at his phone and thinks about the plan he discussed with Art. He makes a decision, calls his friend in Ohio. It goes to voicemail again. This time he leaves a message. "Hey, asshole, call me. I need some help with something."

His eyes wander the kitchen afterward, subconsciously taking inventory. It's a learned trait. Zoe's not particularly neat, more practical, and it shows with what's handy on the counter, a clutter of things used every day. His eyes stop at a magnetic knife rack and he stands, curious, and walks over and picks out a knife and tests the blade. It's sharp. He grins, liking her all the more for it. He puts the knife back on the rack and tries another – it's sharp too. He replaces it and sets his phone on the counter and tiptoes into her bedroom to see if he can get back, if only for a few hours, to when he thought things were getting better.

* * *

 

He and Zoe are discussing their parents over breakfast at the little table in her kitchen. He skips lightly over the tale of his folks with a "They're dead. End of story." And he thinks he's getting away with something, happy to listen to her talk about hers when she doesn't push him for more. He even gets her started. "You said your dad was Army?"

"Delta."

He almost spits out an entire mouthful of coffee, swallows quickly, sets his mug down, sits back coughing. He covers his face with his hands. "Shit. Delta?" He's still coughing. "You should've told me sooner. I can't date you. Sorry. I gotta go." He stands up to leave.

She laughs and grabs his shirt and pulls him back down into his seat. "Don't you pussy out on me."

"You must be used to it. I bet it happens a lot."

"Only happens with the ones who understand what it means." She smiles and bites her lip. "Was your dad military?"

"No."

"What was he then?"

"Uh…" He picks up his mug again but he's already had the last mouthful. He stares at the dregs. "He was a hypocrite."

"I hear that pays well."

He grins at her joke. "Probably true most of the time, but he was a religious hypocrite. That doesn't pay worth shit. I can't believe people actually listened to his sermons."

"Oh. Like that, is it?"

"Like that."

"What happened to him?"

"It's kinda cliché."

"What?"

"He fell asleep after a lot of drinking…" – he pauses for effect, face mimicking the Joker – "…with a lit cigarette. Burned the house down. Fortunately, they were the only ones in it. The dog was sleeping outside."

"Oh my God, your mom too? I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I think you'd call her an enabler. A partner in crime at any rate." He puts his hand on his heart. "It was the Holy Father calling home to Heaven his beloved children. God, the number of times I had that bullshit spouted at me. He burned the fucking house down around him. If God was involved, then he loves a bit of irony."

He runs a hand through the bed head and thinks about his sister. They haven't spoken since the funeral. She didn't appreciate that he mocked her belief that their parents were in heaven now. He said if lying, cheating, child-beating assholes go to heaven, then hell is kinda redundant, don't you think? And that's when she called him a warmonger and slapped him for good measure. He hasn't been back to his home town since. His father stopped talking to him when he joined the army, the war machine as he liked to say. His sister pleaded with him outside the church at the funeral to quit and repent his sins or he wouldn't see his mother and father in heaven to reconcile their differences. He had just completed Basic and was given the weekend to attend the funeral before starting Airborne training. He hadn't been in long enough to have done any serious sinning. He pointed that out to her, and then told her his only regret in signing up was that he'd likely bump into his father in hell when he got there eventually. If he'd been smart, he'd have tried a more saintly profession. She has at least two kids, a niece and nephew somewhere that he hopes are doing okay without his influence. It's a sorry state of affairs when he considers himself a better role model than anyone else in his family.

He wonders if it's a full moon this week, or maybe there's a tragic anniversary looming, and so the melancholy thoughts. He looks up at Zoe. "I was hoping to save this conversation until, I dunno, at least the third date."

"Guess we'll have to find something else to do for that one."

"So, your dad's Delta. What's your mom do – SAS, KSK, Spetsnaz?"

"Couldn't say. I don't know her."

"What?"

"She didn't like being married to the military, single-parenting so much of the time. She took off on us one day when I was…" She reaches down so her hand is knee-high.

"She ever come back?"

"Nope. Dad left the army and moved back home here to Kentucky where he had family and that's when he opened the hardware store. He decided I needed at least one parent around to raise me."

"Good on him."

"We're pretty close."

"I can imagine. You ever look for her?"

"God, no. Why would I?"

He nods. "I guess we'll need to find something to do now on our fourth date too."

"We could go to a movie."

"Or make out."

She grins for that. "Did you really call your boss and take the day off?"

"I did."

She chews her lip again, sounds sorry when she says, "I have to help Dad at the store this afternoon. I promised him."

"Don't change your plans for me," he says. "I got things I can do." And then he admits something to her that he hasn't yet admitted to himself. "Honestly, I just didn't feel like going to work today." It surprises him coming out of his mouth.

"Why do I think that's not like you?"

"It's not. I would've gone in if this weren't so nice." He absentmindedly picks up his empty mug a second time, looks at the bottom and sets it back down.

She leans across the table and kisses him. "There's more coffee," she says when she sits back, a gesture at the pot on the counter.

It hasn't really registered with him that his mug is empty. He's focused on other things. Now it's Derek Hutter's daughter, and Sandoval sitting snuggly in a house in Cleveland.

She retrieves the pot for him. "Well, if it's a distraction you need, we're doing inventory at the store. The help would be welcome."

"Delta, huh?"

"Ex."

"There's no such thing as ex-Delta."

"I bet there's no such thing as ex-Ranger neither."

He likes the way she says 'neither' when she's not trying to impress anyone, sitting at the little table in her kitchen, tired.

"Delta. Jesus."

* * *

 

He helps her at the hardware store. He shakes hands with the Delta Force father who says, "Nice shooting in the square the other day. Zoe says you're a Ranger. What exactly does that mean to you?"

"Second Battalion, 75th Regiment."

Her dad nods his approval, smiles. "You in the sniper platoon?"

"That's right."

"Not much of a challenge for you then."

"Not really."

There's a measured look from him, then for Zoe, then back to him, and Zoe's father says, "I appreciate the help today."

He spends the afternoon with her counting screw drivers, shovels, boxes of nails. It's easy work. They talk. They joke. He gets his hands on her when he thinks no one is looking. He stays and has dinner with them. He drives her home and they end up in bed again. It's all easy. She's laughing while they're having sex. He's making up stories about his scars, each one more ridiculous than the last.

"That one? I was in a knife fight with a Yeti near the Pakistan border."

"Really?"

"Uh-huh. He won't be bothering any Rangers anytime soon."

"You sure it was a 'he?'"

"He had his girlfriend's name tattooed on his right bicep."

"Underneath all the hair?"

"He was a skin."

"Good story."

"Thanks. And this one…shark attack."

"In Afghanistan?"

"No, right here in Kentucky."

"Didn't know there were sharks here."

"Don't know much, do you?"

She's on top, keeping a straight face but only just. "This one?"

"Spooning accident."

"Oh, that can be painful, I hear."

"Wasn't following the safety protocols." He points to another scar. "This nasty one…" He runs a finger across his scar from the beating, along his ribs on the left side. He's happy to joke about it. "Girl I slept with once whose daddy is Special Forces."

That's where she loses it and starts giggling. "Oh, I think he likes you well enough. He didn't pull his gun when he caught us kissing in the back."

"He's scary."

"He's alright."

"He's fucking Delta."

Later she asks him, in the quiet as he's drifting, "Was it as bad as they said in the papers? They said you were in critical condition."

"How do you remember that?"

"I went to the library and did a search on it. I honestly didn't remember. It didn't mean anything to me at the time."

He wants to brush it off but something in her tone drags the truth out of him. "It was bad. I was lucky a couple of kids decided to sneak into the building. Might not be here enjoying this if they hadn't."

"How do you get past something like that?"

"I'll let you know if I ever figure it out." He's fully awake now, thinking.

"Why don't you take tomorrow off too? I'm working nights the rest of the week. I don't have to be anywhere till four. "

It's tempting. He figures Art would let him if he confesses that it is the cute waitress from The Chase that's keeping him away, and she's just as nice without a tray of beer. In fact, better than nice.

* * *

 

He spots the pool car as soon as he turns onto his block. It looks like the one that Rachel likes to use. As he drives past he waves, then pulls into his driveway and walks back up the street to meet her. He checks his phone to make sure he hasn't missed a call somewhere between lunch and dropping Zoe at the bar for her shift.

"What's up?"

"I was going to ask you that." Rachel is still working, her sidearm and star in view as she saunters across the street.

"I think you've been spending too much time with Raylan. You're starting to walk like him."

"Excuse me?"

That hit a nerve. He smirks. Bulls-eye.

Her walk changes up subtly in the two steps it takes for her to get up in his face. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Look at you strutting across the street."

"I do not strut."

"Not since I mentioned it."

She reaches out and swats him. "Don't be an asshole."

"What're you doing here, besides assaulting me?"

"I need some company while I go deal with a warrant. I was hoping you might be interested."

"I got the day off."

"I know. Truthfully, I can handle the warrant myself but I thought I'd come here and see what's up with you. Are you moping, or doing something stupid?"

"Are those my only options?"

"Tim, get in the car."

"Yes, ma'am."

He follows her back across the road to her car.

"Are you carrying?"

He scoffs.

The warrant file is on the dash. He reaches for it and starts reading as she drives. They're outside the city limits and heading south and west, Rachel talking and asking him questions. He grunts in response when it's needed while he scrolls through the pages. Eventually she asks a question that demands more than a guttural acknowledgement.

"Tim, is everything alright?"

He slaps the folder shut and drops it on the seat between them. "Why is everybody asking me that? I took a couple of days. So what?"

"So, it's not like you."

He has nothing to say to that.

"Raylan tells me you got confirmation that Taylor was involved."

"Yep."

"So?"

"So? They _paid_ him."

"No, I mean, so what are you going to do with that information?"

"I'm working on it."

She huffs.

He taps the file. "Was Art gonna let you go after this guy alone?"

"You're changing the subject."

"That's right. I'm changing the subject. Was Art gonna let…?"

"No. He told me to find you and take you along."

"No one else was available?"

She looks over at him, guilty, and it's his turn to huff. But he likes her too much to stay angry. He taps the folder again. "This guy is like five times bigger than you, and mean. Did you read this?"

* * *

 

Rachel knocks. Tim stands against the front of the house to the side of the door so he can't be seen. They hear heavy footsteps inside. Rachel looks over and makes a face. She slides a hand down to her hip and unclips her sidearm but leaves it holstered. Tim moves his hand to his back where he keeps his subcompact, makes a face back at her.

The inside door opens.

Rachel looks up. "Mr. Grange," she says, putting on attitude. "I'm Deputy…"

"I know why you're here," he says. "And I'll come without any trouble. There's just something I gotta look after first." He pushes open the screen. "Come on in." There are tears streaming down his cheeks and dripping off his chin. His shoulders shudder in sympathy with a sob that escapes.

"Mr. Grange, I have a warrant…"

"I know." He falls to his knees, face crumpled, and his hands come up and muffle the sobbing.

Rachel looks to Tim for help. He shrugs then pulls his gun out and steps behind her to cover her movements when she gives in to the absurdity and gets down on one knee and puts a comforting hand on her felon's shoulder. "What's wrong?" she says, all the attitude holstered for now.

"It's my momma. She just passed. Only just. She's in the den. I can't… She made me promise that I'd stop my meanness. It was the last thing she said and then she…" He can't say it, voice hitching. He wipes a meaty hand across his face in an attempt to mop up. "I promised my momma. I promised."

Rachel pats his back awkwardly, waves at Tim with the other hand. "Call it in," she says.

He stares at her, raises his eyebrows to communicate his disbelief, mouths, "Handcuffs."

She glares.

He throws his arms out, holsters his weapon and pulls out his phone.


	24. Chapter 24

He and Rachel are leaning against her car watching the coroner remove the body from the house. Mr. George Grange, wanted for armed robbery and felony murder, some aggravated assault in the mix, is stumbling behind the gurney that's carrying his mother, his face distorted like a mask from an ancient tragedy, and he's weeping accordingly, the flood of tears seeping through a tangle of beard. He has an escort, two local deputies, one on each side, and his hands are cuffed.

"This is better than reality TV," says Tim.

Rachel turns her head to frown at him but he's too busy enjoying the spectacle to notice.

"Don't you think it would be a good idea to send whatever you have over to the Special Investigative Team, let them handle it?" she says.

That gets his attention. "You know I appreciate your opinion, but no."

"What're you going to do then?"

"Gonna shoot 'em all." He lines up his index finger and takes four shots, makes childish but lifeless sound effects to match while he pictures his targets. "Bang, bang, bang, bang. First one's for Taylor." Even the last is deadpan.

"And would that make you feel better?"

He says simply, "Yup."

Rachel drops her head. "Tim, you can't."

"I know. But I can't just pass over my hard-earned information to those dicks in Washington and hope for the best either. Art said he'd help me get some justice as long as I didn't murder anybody. I'm not gonna murder anybody. But I'm not letting it go. Okay? Happy?"

"Okay, happy." She doesn't sound happy. They're silent while they watch the doors being closed on the coroner's truck, Grange being handed into the back of a Sheriff's car. Rachel pulls out her keys as the cavalcade pulls out from the curb. The show is over. "Come on. I'll drop you at home."

"No, I think I'll come in with you. Show my face. Maybe then people will stop asking if I'm alright."

"I don't think it'll help."

"Ouch."

"That's not what I meant."

* * *

 

Raylan is holding open the door at the Marshals' entrance when they arrive back at the courthouse. Apparently he's leaving for the weekend, five o'clock on the dot. He nods as they approach. He doesn't ask Tim if he's alright. He says, "Hey, Tim. You do have a gift."

"A gift?"

"For sniffing out happy hour. It's the stuff of legend. You disappear for two days then show up just in time for the Friday afternoon drink."

Nelson is next out the door. "Hi, Tim. Where've you been? You alright?"

"No. My goldfish died."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

Raylan ruins the fun. "Nelson, Tim doesn't have a goldfish." He leaves Nelson to hold the door for Art who's bringing up the rear, and says to Tim, "The world won't let him have a pet. If the animal rights folks got wind of it, they'd descend on Lexington like a plague."

"That's why I keep a nest of vipers. Nobody seems to care too much about vipers. Come over sometime, Raylan, and I'll let you play with them unsupervised."

Art steps between the boys, slaps a hand on Tim's back. "Just couldn't stay away, could you?"

"Sure, go ahead, pretend like you didn't orchestrate this whole thing."

"Not the dying mother."

"Wouldn't put it past you."

"Excuse me," Rachel says, elbows Tim out of the way and moves around them all toward the open door. "Go on without me. I'll catch up."

"You're not coming?"

"I want to get the paperwork done first."

Arms out, Art takes a step backward and blocks the door. "Rachel, it's Friday night. It's drink night. For heaven's sake, it can wait till Monday."

Tim and Raylan exchange a look, both blurt out the same words with the same hurt expression. "You never say that to us."

"You two go drinking every night. It's not like Friday's special." Art points at Tim. "And the only reason I'm not making _you_ go write this up is because you're not actually working today."

"I think this is reverse misogyny. Wait, is that even possible?"

"The word you're looking for is 'misandry,'" says Rachel.

Art grins, uncaring, and corrals the group toward the parking lot exit, a friendly wave for the guard at the gate. Rachel is still protesting but Art insists. "C'mon, relax a little. I'll buy you a drink for closing out that warrant."

Tim says to Raylan, "He ever offer to buy you a drink for closing out a warrant?"

"Nope."

A disclaimer is added. "...for closing out a warrant without a shot being fired."

"I did that just yesterday," says Raylan.

"…on a Friday."

"Misandry," says Tim, trying out his new word. "I told you."

Raylan asks the pragmatic question. "Where are we going?"

The suggestion comes from Tim, and quickly. "Why don't we just go across the street?"

"What?" says Raylan. "You too thirsty after all your hard work today to walk a block or two?"

Art's not fooled, a knowing look and an annoying grin. "He just doesn't want us all landing in at The Chase and bothering his girlfriend. Did you piss her off already?"

"More like I don't wanna piss her off."

"You mean you finally called that waitress?" says Raylan.

"What waitress?" Nelson is scrambling again to keep up.

"Stop." Tim plants both feet refusing to go further, like a dog on a hot sidewalk. He was leading the way but now everyone has jostled past him. "I'm not going drinking with you if my love life is going to be the main subject of discussion."

"You're in love?"

"Fuck. That's it. I'm done here. I'm going home and…"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence. He's attacked from behind, pulled backward in a chokehold. He reacts, lifts both legs and drops his full weight down, and when his feet find sidewalk again he pushes up hard, jumps backward throwing himself forcefully into his attacker. They stumble apart and Tim turns quickly, reaching back for his gun and clutching at an empty holster. He's lost his backup in the struggle. There's a second of panicked disbelief as he realizes his assailant is holding it.

Raylan and Rachel both have weapons out and aimed, but they hesitate when Tim, standing between them and their target, tilts his head in a familiar way, relaxes his fingers from the fists they had balled themselves into. He's projecting annoyance, not fear. He lets loose a "fuck" and there's more expression in the word than anyone's used to hearing from him.

Rachel lowers the barrel of her gun, her eyes darting between Tim and his assailant, waiting for something, elucidation. Raylan is still aiming at the man's chest, his arms not quite level because of the size of his target. He's over six-feet tall, easily two hundred pounds and none of it wasted, tattoos liberally covering both arms and disappearing under the sleeves of his t-shirt and reappearing again at the neck. He looks threatening enough but his behavior contradicts his appearance. He has a hand up rubbing his chin where Tim's head connected, testing his jaw by moving it back and forth. The action is comical. And the missing subcompact is lying harmlessly flat in the open palm of his other hand. It's being inspected.

Tim continues his swearing. "Fuck. Jesus fucking Christ. Jackson, you fucking... Do you _ever_ think before you do your stupid shit? Have you got a death wish or something? Fuck. You're lucky you have my gun. I'd fucking shoot you in the face, you...fucking..." Tim looks over his shoulder at Raylan, anticipating his response to the situation. "Stand down, cowboy. I'd have to answer to an entire battalion of armed and angry Rangers if this idiot got shot on my watch. Unless I did it. They'd understand then."

Jackson is chuckling at Tim's tirade. He waves the pistol. "You got a little one too?" He's clearly delighted with it. "Cocked and locked – you are wonderfully predictable, Gutterson. What ammo are you using? Let me guess. Expensive." He releases the magazine and takes a peek. "And…oh? Not that expensive."

"If I'm pulling that trigger it's to stop some idiot like you standing a few feet from me. I'm not putting holes in targets at fifty yards."

"Does it shoot as nice as the full-size?"

"You bet. German precision." They grin at each other for a minute. Tim throws out his arms. "What the fuck are you doing in Lexington?"

"You weren't answering your phone."

"Did you call my cell?"

"No. I'm not gonna call your cell when you call at eight in the morning asking for a favor. I called your home phone. Cell phones are wide open. Fucking anyone can listen in." He changes up his tone, concern now. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"You didn't sound it in the message."

"I'm fine." Tim says it again but is even less convinced of it. Seeing his oldest and best friend is triggering something, inking the outline of what's changed since the abduction. He's not fine. "It's good to see you." He walks forward and is enveloped in a hug. "It's been a while."

"You've been busy."

"Yeah, well…" He finishes with a grunt that's not an affirmation and realizes he's been avoiding this meeting. He wishes it weren't so public. He passes a hand quickly over his mouth, stopping words from coming out, turns once more to face the Marshals and offers a look of apology to Art. "Friend," he says.

"Uh-huh. Figured that out on my own. Well, invite him along and let's get going. If I wasn't in need of a drink before, I sure am now."

Tim makes a hasty introduction. "Uh, Jackson, Marshals; Marshals, Jackson."

Art steps up to take the handshake for the rest of them. "Nice to meet you. Art Mullen."

Jackson smiles, affable, deftly swaps Tim's pistol into his left hand to extend the courtesy that Art is offering, says, "This is like a scene from the Old West. It's a posse of Marshals."

"And each and every one of us carrying. You're lucky we didn't shoot you. You like beer?"

"I do."

"Come on along then. And Tim, I never thought I'd have to say this to you, but get your gun back before I have a fit."

Art finishes the introductions while Tim tucks his handgun away. He uses it as an excuse to lag behind and tuck away his stray emotions.

* * *

 

Jackson is forgiven by the time the second round is delivered to their table. He's easy company, tells a good story. Tim sits back, content to let Jackson roll, content not to be the center of attention, until his friend decides to turn the spotlight his way.

"So, did you call that waitress?"

"Fuck off."

"He did," says Raylan.

"She nice?"

"No, I only date nasty girls."

Jackson nods in agreement. "That's true. I remember fucking what's-her-name."

"Tara," offers Rachel.

"That's the one."

"Fuck off, the lot of you."

"Zoe's nice," says Art. "We've all met her."

"Oh, so it's serious. You've introduced her to the family."

"No." Tim draws a circle in the air to encompass everyone at the table. "They all frequent the bar she works at."

"You law enforcement types, such fucking lushes," says Jackson. "Don't know how you stand it here, Tim, you being from a prohibitionist family."

"Prohibitionist only in word."

Raylan reinforces the label given them by Jackson, waves over at the bar for another round while Jackson lists off on his fingers what he's learned about Tim's latest girl. "So, she's nice. She works at a bar. She has lousy taste in men."

"Brown hair," says Raylan.

Tim adds, "And her dad's Delta."

It's Jackson's turn to choke on his drink, chuckling as he draws out the 'oh' in "Oh, buddy. You are so fucked. I'll bet she shoots better than you."

"You're probably right. We haven't gone there yet. I'll probably have to let her drive too."

"You can stay home and look after the kids."

* * *

 

Art leaves first, home for the weekend, Nelson behind him by only a few minutes. Raylan stands after another round, drops money on the table and mumbles something about an errand. Rachel frowns at the mystery in his vague excuse and looks like she'd like to follow him, keep him in line. But she can't be two places at once and she's clearly more concerned about what Tim and his friend are up to.

Tim knows why she's staying, but he doesn't mind. He has fewer secrets from her than anyone else in the office, less reason to keep the mask in place. He trusts her to only pass on what needs to be heard. He teases her. "You don't have to stick around. I already told you what I'm gonna ask him to do."

Jackson has his own ideas about the help Tim needs. "I been waiting for you to call so we could go fuck somebody up. Time for some payback."

"Payback?"

"For what they did to you?"

"What're you talking about?"

"They beat you fucking nearly to death. We were ready to do some damage even before you got out of the hospital."

Tim stares at his friend, mouth dropped open, manages a word. "Hospital?"

"Don't be a douche. I came to see you right after they found you. If you think I'm fucking standing on the sidelines while those fuckers get what's coming…"

"You came to the hospital?"

"The cop on the door wouldn't let me in. I made a bit of a scene. They threatened me with handcuffs when I snuck in later. They didn't tell you?"

Tim shakes his head, stunned.

"Yeah, well…" Jackson looks away.

"I was pretty out of it for the first couple weeks. Someone probably did tell me, or didn't bother's more likely." Tim feels stupid that he didn't know, and even more stupid that he thought his friend didn't know. "How did you know?"

"I can fucking read, asshole. It was in the papers. You better believe that shit would get my attention when it happens to a Federal Marshal in Lexington. What're the odds, I thought, but then you hadn't answered any texts for like fucking…days. We were all talking about it."

"We?"

"Me and Shag and Weitz." Jackson thinks about it, then lists off a few more names from Tim's platoon. "Weitz came down and staked out your house for a while." Jackson smiles at Rachel. "He got a nice photo of you."

She looks horrified, ready to protest, but Jackson keeps right on going.

"I figured you had your reasons for not talking about it, but I know it's been weighing on you 'cause…well, fuck, because you haven't been fucking talking about it. You never brought it up. Not once. And then you call three times this week and only leave a message the last time. And then you don't answer your fucking phone for two days…" He smiles for Rachel again. "I thought maybe they got him again." He twitches, says, "Oh, shit. That reminds me," and pulls out his phone. "I'd better tell the guys you're alright. Hopefully they're not on their way yet." His thumbs are moving in double-time.

Tim's mouth is hanging open again. He shuts it and pushes his fingers into his eye sockets. "Did we get married or something and I didn't know? Like maybe that night when I got shitfaced and woke up in the bucket of that front loader? Fuck, tell me we didn't consummate anything."

"Fuck you, buddy. I'm here to either organize your rescue or kick your ass for being such a fucking dick. Did you forget who your friends are?"

"No. They're the loud and obnoxious ones. How can I forget?"

Jackson is still rapid-fire texting. Tim takes the time to sort through his feelings about this revelation. He looks over at Rachel and is dismayed to see sympathy in her face. He snaps at her. "I'm fine."

"Mm-hm."

Then he snaps at Jackson. "Are you texting the entire platoon?"

Jackson looks up but he's distracted, goes back to the texting, then finally puts away his phone.

"Are you done?"

"Yeah. So what is it you need me to do?"

He looks at Rachel again, the sympathy replaced by a warning. He ignores it.

"I need you to find someone for me…in Cleveland."

"Cleveland? Who the fuck's in Cleveland?"

"A fucking scumbag named Jesus Sandoval."

"Is he one of the fuckers that tried to beat you to death?"

Tim winces at a flash of phantom pain. "Not exactly."

"But this will help you get them?"

"That's what I'm hoping."

"Alright then. Jesus…?"

"Sandoval. Jesus Sandoval."

"I'm on it." Jackson pushes back his chair and stands.

"Sit down," says Tim. "You can't just Google an address. The Marshals Service has him hidden. I'll get you a name and a picture of the Marshal handling his case. You'll have to follow him."

There's disapproval in the way Rachel has her lips pressed tightly, staring down at her beer glass, her fingers tapping out the sound of a leaking roof. It puts him on edge. But he's thought it out. He doesn't want anything rebounding, not on anyone in the Lexington Office. There will be no subtle inquiries to the Cleveland Marshals, no favors pulled, no trace left from a computer search, nothing to point to Art or any of his people.

* * *

 

Rachel avoids him the next week, keeps to herself and keeps busy. There's nothing he can say that'll reassure her so he leaves her to it. Jackson will find Jesus Sandoval. It's just a matter of time, and as it turns out, not as much time as he'd anticipated. He gets the text toward the end of the week.

_Got him. Butt fucking ugly scumbag. You didn't warn me._

He's at his desk when his phone pings. Work this week has seemed dull, meaningless. He goes through the motions and performs his duties diligently, but his heart's not in it anymore. He wonders if anyone else can sense it. He's had to remind himself constantly to stay focused. He escapes to Zoe's apartment whenever he can, stepping through an invisible wall that he's constructed to separate that world from this one. Now that the plan is in motion, nothing else is important in the day-to-day. It wears at him. He's grateful for the oasis he's constructed around her, shutting everything else off, living in the moment. It's a mirage and he knows it, but it's providing something he needs and he tries not to think too much about it, think it out of existence. He likes her. He likes her a lot.

Zoe is the first thing he considers when he gets Jackson's text. There's a thought that he's successfully ignored until now, that he should come clean with her if he's going to try to keep this thing with her going. Maybe he'll talk to her tonight, finally pull down that wall and see if the two worlds can coexist.

He pushes it out of his mind and replies to the text.

_Thanks. Call tonight. And welcome to my world. Ugly scumbags._

He looks across the bullpen at Rachel. Time to let her in too. He stands up and slowly and deliberately collects his phone, his wallet, sunglasses. He walks through the buzzing bullpen, oblivious to it all, stops in front of her desk and waits for an acknowledgement. He knows she's aware, was aware even before he crossed the office, and he gives her all the time she needs to berate him with silence.

It's a long scolding, then, "What can I do for you, Deputy Gutterson?"

He plays along. "I have a warrant for a coffee. I need someone for backup. You look free."

"I'm free but I'm not easy."

"And I know it, but easy is boring. I hate boring."

She looks up when it's no longer possible not to. "What do you want, Tim?"

"You said you would've come with me last time if I'd asked. Well, I'm asking."

She leans forward and he meets her halfway, puts his hands on her desk and leans in.

The finger she points is inches from his nose. "I won't go in blind."

"That's why I'm offering to buy you a coffee, so I can enlighten you."

She humphs, stands up and walks around her desk. "A word of advice, Gutterson – next time just say up front that you're buying."


	25. Chapter 25

"What're you boys plotting?" Zoe sets the beer glasses on the table then flips the tray under her arm so she can put both hands on her hips. "You two with your heads together, all secrets and whispering. If there was an internationally accepted body language alphabet then this here…" – she lifts a hand and waves it between them – "…this would be 'up-to-no-good.'"

Jackson is all charm, quite taken with Tim's new girl. "We're not plotting, we're planning. There's a difference."

"And what's the difference?"

"Planning is for good. Plotting is for evil."

"That's a cute kind of bullshit you're spouting. Your burgers will be up in a minute."

Jackson grins and watches her walk away. "She called me cute."

"I think it was your bullshit she said was cute."

"I'll take it."

Jackson felt the need to deliver in person the address for Jesus Sandoval. He arrived at the end of the work day, tackled Tim a second time outside of the courthouse, nagged until he could get Tim to agree to buy him a beer so he could meet Zoe. One beer became two; two became three; three became dinner with a fourth. Tim has given up not drinking weekdays.

"I like her, buddy. Too bad about Daddy. But anyone who thinks our bullshit is cute..."

"She said 'your bullshit.'"

"If Clare had thought my bullshit was cute, we might still be together."

"I think there was a bit more to it than that," says Tim, then he explains Zoe's family situation to soften the sarcasm. His friend's still hurting. "Marriage and military – each is hard enough without fucking mixing them, dude."

"I should've waited."

"Whatever."

"Fuck it."

"You hear from her?"

"No." Jackson finishes his beer and starts in on the new one. "So…fucking whatever. We got more important things to talk about. Sandoval. What're you planning on doing with him?"

Tim corrects him. "Not planning, _plotting,"_ he says, and looks over at Zoe. "But first things first. I gotta get Taylor for his part in all this. Me and Rachel are heading down on Monday."

* * *

 

He thinks too much when he's driving, or sitting doing nothing. That's why he likes to be occupied, mind and body. Unfortunately today he's driving, watching an endless reel of highway scenery scroll past. It's a good backdrop for thinking. He's thinking that his whole world is alcohol, coffee, driving and sleeping, with occasional interruptions of gunfire. That's it. It'd make a lousy novel. Well, there is some regular sex now, and with a partner, and that's nice. He repeats his thoughts aloud for Rachel and she doesn't laugh. Maybe it hits too close to home to be amusing for her. Her life is pretty much the same, minus the sex since she and Joe divorced. But Tim checks that last thought and wonders if maybe she's out there on weekends hooking up. It's not hard for girls to get some if they want it, and Rachel is a desirable bundle. He peeks out the corner of his eye at her.

"None of your business," she says, raspish. Rachel, the freakish mind reader. She adds eating to the list.

"Right, eating," he says, and his stomach grumbles so he pulls over at the next rest stop and buys lunch for the two of them.

* * *

 

They find the old pickup where he and Raylan left it, after a few wrong turns.

Rachel doesn't look impressed. "We're not seriously driving that to New Mexico?"

"It's cool. It's vintage. And it's your favorite color."

"That's not red, that's rust."

"Yeah, well…"

"It'd better have air conditioning."

He gives her a look that draws a rare cuss from her.

"Shit. You're kidding me." A huff.

But she gets into the role quickly enough, enjoying the subterfuge of the empty hotel room, the journey, anticipating the stop at El Paso. She's never been.

It's a different trip with her than with Raylan. It seems more like a family vacation than a mission. Rachel is awake for more of it, pointing out the sights, commenting on the geography, insisting on nicer places to eat. She wants to walk all over El Paso when they finally get there, check out the bullet holes along the buildings fronting the border with Juarez. He just wants to drink some tequila and sleep for a couple of hours. He misses Raylan, stops suddenly on the sidewalk in shock.

"What?" she says, turning to see why he's halted her tour.

"I just had the weirdest thought."

"What?"

"I kinda miss Raylan."

"You two probably sat yourselves in the first bar you could find that served cheap tequila and then rented a cheap and filthy hotel room to sleep it off in."

"Uh..."

She grabs his arm and pulls him along on her walking tour.

They giggle rather than smirk. It's as if he didn't make this exact same road trip just two weeks earlier, that's how different it feels.

They have a different destination in Las Cruces this time too. An address for Deputy US Marshal Phil Taylor.

Rachel is nervous about it, but he reassures her. "I'm not gonna touch him. I won't even get close. I promised Art."

They do some surveillance of the man's house then drive across town and sit in an all-night diner, have a late meal and some coffee. After midnight they drive past the address again to make sure the lights are off, then they park a few blocks away and walk back. Tim has a ruck full of odds and ends that he might need – wire cutters, wire stripper, a phone with alligator clips. He checked before leaving Lexington that Taylor had a landline. He's not certain he would've asked Rachel to come otherwise. No landline would've meant breaking and entering. Instead, he only has to break into the phone box and that's not difficult. He splices the line, jacks in the old phone he's carrying, and makes a call with Taylor's number to a roadhouse on the outskirts of town.

A man answers.

"Hutter?"

"That's right."

"I have the information you're looking for."

There's a short pause. "Alright."

Tim repeats Sandoval's address from memory. He hangs up, cleans up the evidence of tampering, jimmies the box closed.

He says, "Let's porkchop," in a whisper, coming up behind Rachel standing lookout on the sidewalk.

"That's it?" says Rachel.

"That's it."

"Long drive."

"If you had a better idea, you might've let me in on it before we left Lexington."

"No, I like your plan. I can see my way around it morally. Ma would call it forced karma. I like to think of it as interactive guilt assignment."

* * *

 

There are flaws in the plan but he tries not to think about them. Everything that's in his control he's taken care of. What isn't, isn't worth worrying about. He has Rachel to do that for him.

She's good at sleeping in a car. She's had eight hours and now she's wide awake, her mind going. "What if he gets to Cleveland before you do?"

"I got someone watching Sandoval. He's safe. Hutter shows up, Jackson makes a call to the local police, they get arrested in the act."

"Jackson?" The way she says it suggests that she doesn't have much confidence in his choice of babysitter for Sandoval.

"He knows how to dial 911. He knows how to stop someone with a gun too, if it comes to that. He was my team leader when I moved into the sniper platoon. Awesome Ranger."

She makes a noise of disapproval.

"Rachel, he may not look like your idea of a professional, but trust me, he is."

Raylan offered to go to Cleveland and watch over Sandoval himself to ensure his safety, but it didn't make sense to Tim to put anyone from work near the WITSEC house. Jackson has a Cleveland address, an excuse for being there. But a Lexington Marshal, when you consider all the circumstances, would be instantly suspect. Even Tim has no intention of going anywhere near Ohio until this is done.

"And what if Hutter just walks in and shoots him?"

"Won't happen. He wants him to suffer."

"What if he gets spooked?"

Tim shrugs. "So, he shoots him and we get him for murder one. _And_ there's one less scumbag in the world. Won't be crying myself to sleep." He says the last to get her riled up, hears her huff and knows, even with his eyes shut, that she's glaring over at him.

"Okay then, what if Hutter doesn't follow up?"

"That's possible."

"What's the plan then? Give the information to Washington?"

"If you're gonna keep talking then you might as well pull over and let me keep driving. This is supposed to be my time to sleep."

She huffs once more but goes silent.

He and Rachel decided ahead of time to put some quick distance between themselves and Las Cruces after the deed. They didn't bother renting a motel room in El Paso. Tim had volunteered to take the first leg, content to let her sleep and to have some time to himself to think in the dark and silent hours of predawn. He rolled the window down to let in the cool air to help stay awake, gave his jacket to Rachel for warmth when she complained. The sun crept up over the eastern horizon of the flat Texas brush land and he took out his sunglasses and put them on against the glare and kept driving. It's not something he'll admit to many people but he enjoys watching the sun come up. The air smells different at dawn than it does at dusk, something more of a promise to it, a chance for fulfillment. Dusk smells like battle, or reminds him of battle, or else bad habits, boozing and hook-ups and loosing yourself to dreaming. It's a good smell too, either way. Dusk is a craving. Dawn is an expectation.

Dawn worked well with his mood and perked him up so he let her sleep well past their agreed upon time, on until lunch when the sun warmed the car up and Rachel pushed off the jackets.

"Where are we?" she asked, drowsy in the heat.

"Between Abilene and Dallas."

"Pull over. I'll drive. You must be tired by now."

And he was tired then, back when she offered to drive, but her twenty questions after he got settled in the passenger seat has his mind going again.

The payback is moving gears now and he can't stop them – there's too much human element to predict the outcome – but it feels good to be doing something. It feels good not to hurt anymore. It feels good to be sorry he's not going to see Zoe tonight. She's so easy to be with it's like he's always known her.

He shifts in his seat and chances a glance Rachel's way. She has her eyes on the road and doesn't notice him watching her. Since he's thinking about women he lets himself see her as beautiful. It's a luxury, something he works hard to suppress because she made it clear in his first week at the bureau that she didn't appreciate it. He respects that, for her sake. But she is beautiful. He grins at the idea of beautiful Rachel.

"What?" she says, eyes not only in back but apparently on the side too.

"Nothing," he says.

"That's right, mister – nothing."

"Alright, just saying."

"Just don't."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Goodnight, Tim."

"It's after noon."

"Don't sass me."

He balls up his jacket for a pillow and turns a tiny bit sideways, drops his head on the car door and closes his eyes again.

* * *

 

They're at a different motel than the one he and Raylan stayed in outside of Middlesboro in south Kentucky. To mix it up a bit they chose one on the Tennessee side of the State line and left the pool car in the back. They returned to it at two in the morning and are now sleeping off the long trip home in a cheap room when Rachel's phone rings and wakes them both. Tim sits up, eyes wide open, reaches for his handgun. Rachel rolls over on her bed, mumbles something inaudible, sleepy, then gropes for her cell on the side table. As he walks past her to the bathroom he smirks at the lines on her face where she had it smushed into her pillow. She gives him the finger and tells him not to take too long because she has to pee, then she answers the call.

She's sitting very still, cross-legged on the bed when he comes back into the room.

"What?" he says, sensing something out of place.

"Hutter. He walked into a police station in Las Cruces late yesterday and gave himself up. They have a recorded confession."

"Everything?"

"Art didn't say. He wants to give you the details in person. He just got off the phone with DC."

Tim sits down facing her, in the matchbox chair that goes with the matchbox hotel room. He wipes a hand across his mouth. "Huh."

"Tim?"

He looks up.

"Are you alright with that?"

He's not sure.

* * *

 

"I got what they termed a 'courtesy call.' They managed to piss me off before they even started. _A courtesy call._ Assholes. Anyway. They're arresting Taylor right now, maybe already have. Hutter would only name Taylor though. He refused to give up the other two men who…" Art pauses and takes a breath like he's short of oxygen. "He wouldn't name the other two men who helped him here in Lexington." Art watches Tim for a reaction, but Tim doesn't give him one. "If he was cooperative they might've been a bit lenient considering he gave himself up. Taylor's the main thing though, really, I think. So…that's it then."

Tim says simply, "Yup."

* * *

 

He leaves work early, not indecently so, but early enough that Art jogs after him. He _jogs_ after him which alone is evidence of Art's disquiet and makes the question he's about to ask redundant, but he asks it anyway when he catches up to Tim on the courthouse lawn.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," says Tim. "I'm fine." He repeats it to make sure Art gets it. "It's not what I expected, but it accomplishes the same thing. More or less."

"More or less."

Tim turns to leave but Art stops him with another question. "You have names for the other two?"

"Wasn't hard to find them once I had Hutter."

"Tim…"

"Art, I promised you. I intend to hold to that. Nothing I do is gonna come back on me…or you or anyone else here."

"What're you gonna do?"

"I dunno."

It's not an outright lie – a lie of omission only which has its own set of unequal consequences but none as dire as those that come from an outright lie. He knows that's splitting moral hairs but life is all about splitting hairs. He has a vague idea, nothing fully formed. There's still some balancing of justice that needs to happen but he's not certain where to aim. He needs to think about it.

After he leaves Art, he finds a rare payphone and calls Jackson to tell him the news.

Jackson takes it in stride. "Meh, I didn't like this plan anyway. Not enough fucker pounding for me. So what're we gonna do now?" He adds in his best Samuel Jackson voice, _"'Cause enough is enough!_ _I've had it with these monkey fighting snakes on this Monday to Friday plane!"_

"You are fucking hilarious."

"I am mother-fucking serious."

"I'll get back to you."

* * *

 

He walks the streets, no particular destination, just walking, walking and thinking. He walks in circles and ends up at The Chase.

Zoe is just inside the door clearing a table. "Hey," she says.  She catches something in his expression that makes her stop her task and hook her arm through his and escort him over to the bar. "We just got a couple of bottles of 12-year-old Weller, new release. You want a glass?"

He raises both eyebrows in appreciation, an honest smile because things aren't that bad, not really. He got Hutter. He got Taylor. He's batting five-hundred. That would make him happy if this were baseball. "That'd be nice," he says. "Thanks."

The place is quiet, Wednesday evening. They're clearly overstaffed. He can tell because two of the servers are helping to clean shelves behind the bar, pulling down the liquor bottles and glasses and lining them up on the counter below. The manager waves a hello over at Tim then motions for Zoe to join her and they have a short conversation. Zoe nods and disappears into the back. She comes out in her street clothes, slips behind the bar and pours two glasses of bourbon and with her head indicates to Tim to join her at a table. Tim follows and sits down across from her and she slides him his drink.

"Alright," she says. "What's up?"

"Hi?"

"Nope, not buying it. You've got a look. Can't read it yet. I don't know you well enough."

"I'm just thinking."

"Oh, that's your _thinking_ look. No wonder I didn't recognize it."

"That's great. I get sass all day at work, sass from my friends, sass from my girlfriend."

"You must like it then if you come asking for it."

"I asked for bourbon."

"No, I offered you the bourbon."

"Yeah, well..." He twirls his glass in his hand. "They letting you off early?"

"Good behavior."

* * *

 

They have sex and dinner and are sitting in his yard. There isn't much conversation. She slides her feet up on his lap and yawns. He runs his sweating beer bottle up her bare legs.

"That feels nice," she says.

He stops. "Where's the fun in that?"

She chuckles. "Sorry."

He runs the bottle up her other leg because she likes it. Then he starts talking. It begins slowly, tentative. "One of the guys who abducted me turned himself in today, confessed to his part."

"Why would he do that now, after all this time?"

"I guess because I made him," he says. "In a way. I figured out who he was and paid him a visit."

She looks over at him but doesn't say anything.

"Sometimes I'm not so good at being a Marshal."

"Sometimes I'm not so good at being a friend. Sometimes I'm lousy at being a daughter. Sometimes I make a terrible waitress. I actually did spit in a guy's food once."

"Wasn't mine, was it?"

"No."

"Probably wouldn't mind now."

She licks her finger, leans over and sticks it in his ear.

He hardly reacts.

"What'd you do?"

"Nothing too bad."

"But bad?"

"I don't really know."

And then it comes out faster. He tells her about the first visit to New Mexico, and the second. He tells her about Hutter's daughter. He tells her about Taylor. Then it's just as easy to keep talking until he's told her the entire story. She interrupts just once to say, "You'd better explain what they did to you so I have a clear picture of both ends of this." So he does. When he's done he realizes it feels good to lay it all out at once, and to one person. He's doled out portions to everyone close to him, but never in its entirety and always without the complete narration that is his thoughts, his fears. He even lets her see his insecurities. Those he's kept to himself until now. He tells her everything. Everything.

And then it's quiet again with the sweat dripping off the beer bottle onto her shin and the breeze stirring their hair just a little. It's getting dark. When he looks at her she's chewing on her lip and staring up at the blue that's turning to shadow at the eastern edge of the sky.

"Shit," she says eventually. "What a mess. I can't stop thinking, what if it'd been me that he raped and threw out of a car. What would my daddy have done?" She covers her eyes briefly. "Jesus, I can just imagine. You would've been justifiable collateral damage to him. Anything to achieve his goal of getting to that man. It makes me sick thinking about it, but on the other hand... And then there's that poor girl. What hasn't she lost? And now her daddy's in jail. Jesus." She pulls her legs off his lap and draws her chair beside his, wraps her arms around his neck, pulls him over awkwardly and kisses the top of his head. "I'm sorry you got caught up in it. There's nothing you did to deserve what you got." She kisses his cheek. "Seems to me that you and her are the only innocent parties in it all."

"It's gonna be hard for me to stay innocent and do what I need to do."

"You gotta be true to yourself." She kisses him once more, on the mouth. "Shit, I'm dating my father, aren't I?"

"No. I don't own a hardware store."

"Stick around, buster, and you might. I'm gonna inherit it someday. He's already talking about retirement."

He thinks running a hardware store might be a good thing. He wouldn't have to leave Lexington when the Marshals Service eventually gets around to moving him on to another bureau.

"And the Marshals Service is protecting him because why?"

"He has information to bring down a drug distribution ring in New Mexico."

She chews on that for a bit. "How is it that rape and assault is ranked lower in their minds than drugs? I'm not sure I get that."


	26. Chapter 26

Tara hated almost everything about his house. She would constantly suggest changes, or more like demand improvements, trying to mold him into her version of perfection. "You need a new couch. This one is so ugly." "You should paint this room. Blue, or taupe would be better." "Why don't you move your computer upstairs? This is supposed to be a living room, not an office." "I'm not sleeping in those sheets. When was the last time you bought new ones?"

They spent most of their time together at her house. It was less painful. He's a little gun-shy about company since.

Zoe was supposed to be working tonight. He was supposed to pick her up after closing and take her back to her apartment again. But since she was let off early, for good behavior, she thought it would be nice to have a barbecue. He thought it would be nice too. There isn't one at her apartment – no yard – so they headed to his place. He anticipated some disapproval from her, some comment about the old couch or the weedy yard. He closed the door behind her and took a deep breath, bracing himself for it. But she didn't notice the wall color or the couch. She playfully ran her hand up under his shirt and kissed him. They ended up in bed before the barbecue, in his old sheets, old sheets that he hasn't had time to wash in a few weeks. She didn't seem to mind.

Now they're in bed a second time – the barbecue and the talking done – and for the second time he has her on her back on those sheets in the room with the tired beige walls, and she's still not complaining. Maybe this is what you get when you're raised by a single father who values function over form. She clearly didn't rebel.

He's holding another sweating beer bottle and is happily tracing her outline with it, because she likes it, up her thigh to her hip, swerving in at her waist. He pauses to lick the drips of moisture left in his wake then continues up to her ribs and out around the curve of her breast, lingering there. Zoe stretches her arms over her head so he has a clear run up to her finger tips. She hums a single husky note when she feels him hard against her as he stretches out to reach the bottle and his tongue up the full length of her.

"You're heating up my beer," he says, pulls away from her briefly to set it on the table beside the bed.

"Go get a fresh one. I'll wait. I'm liking this."

He kneels between her thighs and grins. "In a minute, greedy girl." He places his hands on her hips, a deliberate motion, then slides them up onto her stomach, her breasts, before dropping them onto the bed on either side of her shoulders to hold himself taut above her with the tip of his penis just touching, enjoying the anticipation. It's agony. In the haze of desire he wonders if women know this agony.

She's not in a patient mood, wraps her legs around his hips and pulls hers up and pushes herself onto him. It's a strong physical acceptance and he groans for the pleasure of it, for the satisfaction of getting what his entire body is screaming for. He lets his arms buckle and he collapses slowly down onto the bed with the weight of the two of them.

"Greedy girl," he says again into her neck, his smile so broad it hurts.

She chuckles and sways her hips.

He moans. "Slow down."

"I want that cold beer."

It's a lusty voice, and there's an invitation in the tone that he feels rather than hears. It drains his thoughts completely, funnels all his awareness and energy to the nerve endings on his skin in the places where it's pressing against hers.

"Jesus." It might be a prayer of thanks, or a plea. He gives in to her rhythm.

* * *

 

Hutter's daughter was a beautiful girl, blonde and richly curvy, like all of Sandoval's rape victims. His salacious leanings definitely had a type.

Tim doesn't want to be thinking about Sandoval's criminal history or his 'type' but there's something in his current situation that draws his mind there. He's lying on his stomach, his head turned to admire his bed companion. Zoe is sleeping, and like most people, she looks younger, more childlike when she's asleep, her features softened, all expressions born of experience removed. He thinks she's beautiful. He wants more than a look, but he won't wake her. He pushes up and rolls onto his side to face her, moves his head closer and takes a deep breath. She makes his sheets smell good. He thinks about what his type is and decides he doesn't really have one. He just likes women. And right now he likes this one especially. He's been accused of dating only for the convenience of having someone to have sex with and that might've been true in the past. But this doesn't feel like that. This girl is tugging at more than just his body parts. And oddly there's no anxiety when he thinks of her and him a year out. But there's no point planning too far ahead. Not with his history.

Again he digs around in his head to see if he has a type that he's not admitting to. Just _willing_ seems to be the only common trait in the girls he's dated. He has a friend who has a list of attributes in his mind when he goes looking for a partner. He says he's more likely to find the perfect woman that way. Tim's not so sure. He's convinced it's simply luck and he leaves himself open to it by not narrowing his search. In his view, it's a more likely scenario that you simply stumble into the right person while you're wading through all the wrong ones. And who knows, this could be it. This girl right here. So far, so good.

He's grateful tonight that Zoe's not blonde and curvy, not Sandoval's type, because he thinks about Sandoval too much as is. But what she said earlier comes back to him and makes him think, what if she were? For a moment, a brief moment before he shoves the picture from his mind, he imagines it – Sandoval on top of Zoe. The distress is immediate. His heart reacts, pounding at his ribs in anger; his lungs can't keep up, flooding with air that hasn't enough oxygen to relieve his constricting chest. He can feel his jaw stiffen, teeth clenching. His entire body is tensing and he's angry, tapped back into the emotions he felt taped to that chair. In that room. He wants to scream. He hates being a victim. He wants somebody dead. He slips as carefully and quietly as he can out of the bed, grabs clothes, careless, a shirt, pants, shuts the door softly as he leaves. He tiptoes down the stairs to his computer desk and opens the top drawer and pulls out the file from the Special Investigative Team in DC. He flips through the pages until he finds a name.

Barefeet into boots, keys, a wallet, his handgun and back holster in place, he steps out into the Lexington night. As the door closes he's engulfed in the solitude of a city in the hours between bars closing and businesses opening, the streets empty, the cool night air calming his agitation. He walks quickly to the rare payphone and places a call.

A sleepy Jackson answers. "What? Fuck."

"It's just me."

"Buddy, you'd better be calling to tell me you plan on fucking doing something fucking nasty finally. What the fuck time is it?"

"I need to reach out to someone undesirable in New Mexico. I was hoping you'd make the call for me. Use a burner. You don't want these fucks tracing you."

"You got a number?"

"Sort of. I got a name for the guy in charge, and a business number where you can leave him a message."

"What's the message?"

"That we got an address for Sandoval. I wanna know what it's worth to them."

"Alright, then what?"

"I'll send you details for when they call back."

"You think they will?"

"I know they will. You got a pen?"

He hangs up the phone and thinks about the case the US Attorney is building around Sandoval's testimony. It's all about to come crashing down. There are bad guys out there who will not be arrested and charged and tried and convicted because of that phone call. His mental reaction is immediate and aggressive: _So fucking what? I don't give a fuck._ He thinks about his job. He likens it to flushing a toilet full of shit and the water rushing in to fill the bowl back up again, waiting for the next piece of shit to occupy the void. Today, he's not doing his job. He's not flushing. He's leaving the same shit floating.

* * *

 

"You are not fucking serious?!"

Art never says 'fucking'. Every head in the bullpen snaps to the fishbowl that is Art's office. He's on the phone and yelling and his door is open.

"After what my guy went through to protect that scumbag's ass, you have the nerve to call me and suggest that he might have had something to do with this? Are you fucking kidding me?!"

Red faced and on his feet in indignation, Art becomes aware that he is the center of attention in the office. He turns and faces the wall behind his desk but continues yelling. "No, you won't. Don't you dare come down here. Deputy Gutterson has nothing to say to you. I have nothing to say to you. And I won't guarantee your safety if you show up and so much as hint at allegations of any culpability to anyone in this bureau. Am I making myself clear?"

The phone is deposited with force into its cradle. Art huffs and puffs like an enraged bull. He yells one more time. "Fuckers!" There's a collective flinching in the bullpen.

When Art's finally in control of himself he walks with forced calm from his office and makes an announcement. "Sandoval was murdered in Cleveland early this morning." There's a buzz of disbelief. "Execution style. He was shot in the head. No loss to the world if you ask me." He turns slightly so he's looking directly at Tim. "Why didn't they move him after Taylor was implicated? They've had all fucking week. That's the _first_ thing I would've done as Bureau Chief. _The first thing!_ He would've been in a new location within twenty-four hours. The fucking idiots. And then they actually have the nerve to ask if they can come down here and question you. The fuckers." He swivels again and addresses the entire staff. "If any one of them steps foot in this office for any reason other than to apologize to Tim in person in the most sucking and groveling manner possible, I'm ordering you to shoot to kill. Got it?"

There's a mumbling of "Yessir" and "Got it" and everyone moves to look busy as Art turns and stomps back to his desk.

Tim wipes a hand across his mouth but can't hide the grin. He twists his head and sees Raylan grinning too.

"Well, shit," says Raylan. "I don't think I've ever seen Art that angry."

"That's because you were out of the office doing something stupid the last time. We took the brunt of it for you."

"You're not pissed?"

"About?"

"Sandoval."

"Why would I be? The guy's a fucking scumbag. He deserves worse than a bullet to the head, but I guess I'll have to settle for it."

"Yep."

* * *

 

It's another week before they get the details. In that time no one from DC comes to visit, not brave enough to show their faces in Lexington. Art has demanded and gets a copy of the follow-up report. He invites Tim and Raylan and Rachel for a drink so they can discuss it. Art's still angry, his meaty hand crushing the paper carelessly. He throws the report on the table and almost knocks his chair over when he yanks it out to sit down.

"Watch your blood pressure, Art."

"Shut up, Raylan."

The server shows up as Art snaps. He's about to retreat back to the bar but Raylan stops him.

"I'll take a Jim Beam, neat."

"Make it two," says Tim.

"Three."

Rachel orders a beer.

Jesus Sandoval is no more. An execution-style murder, shot in the back of the head while on his knees in the front hall of his Cleveland safe house. .357 caliber, two rounds, close range. Dead. They're sure it was the people Sandoval was snitching on who pulled the trigger. It just makes sense. The only thing they can't figure out is how they got the address. It's possible that Sandoval himself contacted somebody when he shouldn't have. It's possible that Hutter traded the information for financial security for his daughter. A little digging found an anonymous donation of one million dollars in a trust account for Derek Hutter's girl, set up the week of the execution, but forensics accounting can't trace it. It was done legally through a reputable bank from a Swiss account. There's no way to link the money with the drug syndicate that Sandoval worked for. They have evidence that Taylor was in contact with Hutter, but they can't find anything to confirm that either Taylor or Hutter were in contact with the drug syndicate. They're at a dead end.

"I can just imagine the smile on Reyes's face," says Art naming the drug boss who was the priority in the case being built around Sandoval's testimony. "And Hutter's too, I guess." He orders another round.

The four marshals sit quietly. There's sporadic eye contact.

Art opens the conversation again after a bit. "It's nice to lay this whole thing to rest even with the black eye it leaves on the Marshals Service. As far as I'm concerned that black eye is nothing compared to the injuries you had, Tim."

Rachel has a worried look, her gaze shifting again and again to Tim's face. She says, "Tim…?" then stops herself and fidgets with her beer glass.

Art watches her, but says to Tim, "Do you think you can put this behind you?"

"As much as I can."

"And how about you?" Art is speaking to Rachel now. "I'm sorry it was you who was there when they brought Tim into the hospital. You had to see what they did to him first hand. Something like that'll stay with you. Are you okay with all this?"

Rachel blinks once, twice. "I'm fine, Chief. It didn't happen to me." She shifts her eyes again to Tim, the worried look softening to something, memories, acceptance. "I'm glad Hutter's daughter is looked after."

Tim flicks his empty glass into the middle of the table, a needless action that betrays his restlessness. A fleeting look for Rachel then he sits back, hooks his arm on his chair. "They're letting her keep the money?"

"Far as I know," says Art. "They can't confiscate it without proof that it's dirty money."

"God knows she's gonna need it," says Raylan. "Lucky windfall."

"Yeah, lucky," says Tim. "No one would begrudge it to her, I hope."

"Mmm." Rachel looks at Tim again, tries one more time to get a read on him but the second round of drinks arrives and changes the mood and the opportunity slides past.

Raylan has to find humor in it. "Twice to the head, huh? It's just like that zombie movie," says Raylan. "Double tap."

Tim smirks. "Sandoval was ugly enough. Maybe someone mistook him for a walker."

"Didn't Rick have a .357 in Walking Dead?" says Rachel.

"Colt Python," says Tim.

"Nice revolver," says Art. "I shot one once. My brother-in-law in Georgia has quite a firearms collection."

"Maybe you could introduce me."

"It worries me how well you two would probably get along."

* * *

 

Zoe is helping him pack.

He holds up a shirt for her approval. "Does this even go with this?"

"Oh my God, Tim. Who cares? You're going for a weekend with your buddies. It's not like you're meeting the president."

"I was just testing you."

She stops folding clothes and looks at him, quizzical, but doesn't ask. He loves that about her. She doesn't ask and doesn't care. She's too confident to need to understand everything that's going on in his head.

"Besides," she says, reaches over and smacks his ass, "everything goes with jeans and you've only packed jeans. My only fashion advice to you is take stuff you're not gonna miss when it gets ruined."

"Just what do you think we're gonna do?"

"I wouldn't dare try to guess. I'd have to bleach my mind if I even thought about it. I've heard stories about what you Ranger types do when you get together. I'm just saying, don't take anything you're fond of."

He's meeting Jackson and two other buddies from the Regiment in Las Vegas for a four-day weekend of stupidness. Zoe's assessment of the trip is likely prescient. He remembers the last time the four of them met in Vegas, blurry recollections of a prostitute running after them and aiming an inventive string of swearing at Jackson, a bar fight that they started and snuck out on before it finished, Shag swimming naked in the fountain at the Bellagio, and then the inside of the holding cell at the Las Vegas Police Department's downtown precinct. They all ended up there when they tried to convince the uniforms that Shag didn't need arresting, just another drink. He had to play his US Marshal card in the end though he was reluctant to do so. That and a bit of sweet-talking, which hurt more than the hangover, eventually got them back to their hotel room without charges being laid. It was a good trip. And clothing did get ruined. He pulls a shirt out of his suitcase and hangs it back in his closet.

"Phew," says Zoe. "I like that one."

He gives her a facetious held tilt.

She drives him to the airport in his truck. He's leaving it in her care.

"Come back alive," she says and kisses him goodbye.

"Jesus, it's not a deployment."

"I'd probably be less concerned if it was. You get into trouble, call Greg, not me."

He likes that about her too. She refers to her dad by name.

"Like I'd ever live down being rescued by a Delta."

* * *

 

They spend the first night in the hotel room, drinking and catching up. Shag lives not too far away, in Flagstaff, Arizona, so he drives to Las Vegas toting a case of Jameson and an ample supply of beer in a cooler and they work their way through a good portion of it, up talking and laughing until dawn. The sun catches them all sleeping wherever they nodded off. They shower and traipse off bleary-eyed to the all-you-can-eat buffet where they drink a few gallons of water that the Nevada desert can hardly spare and stuff themselves with enough food to last them the day then they get into Shag's truck and drive south and east to Las Cruces, New Mexico. It's a ten-hour drive but there are four of them to share it and they do it in eight and half, even with a stop for dinner. Hutter's establishment has been sold and the bike gang has moved on, but Tim has done his research and found their new watering hole. Shag pulls up outside and they watch and wait.

Hutter's two Lexington accomplices show up eventually, swaggering with the confidence of being part of a gang. Tim points them out. The first one comes out of the bar early and they jump him in the parking lot and rope him with zip ties and toss him into the back seat of the double cab, keep him quiet with a pistol to the head. The second one is even easier to subdue, a bit drunk. One good punch from Jackson and he's on the pavement and they ball him up too and stack him on top of his buddy. It's not hard to find a deserted piece of real estate nearby. Weitz jumps out and pulls two folding chairs from the bed of the truck and sets them up in the headlights. They seat their catch and apply liberal amounts of duct tape.

Tim has a piece of metal pipe. He swings it carelessly as he walks toward them. "It's bad Marshal day," he says. "I've been waiting a while for this." He's glad he brought an old shirt.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
